Rook
by littleblackdog
Summary: AU.  In this sequel to Snare, Hawke finds himself offered a very lucrative contract by the Antivan Crows. The job?  Help them hunt a fugitive assassin from their own ranks.  Fenris/m!Hawke, with a bit of Anders/Bethany, Zevran.  Slash, het, violence.
1. Chapter 1

_Rook__ is set somewhere between a year and a half to two years after the end of Snare. Contains M/M, m!Hawke/Fenris, and a bit of Anders/Bethany._

* * *

><p>One thing you could say about a city simmering with barely contained hostility: a lot of people wanted other people dead. While that might have been a bit too gruesome for your average citizen to delight in, Hawke was all sunshine and smiles. Business was good, his family was still comfortable and reasonably safe, and he was nauseatingly happy in his personal life.<p>

Varric liked to put emphasis on the nauseating part, particularly whenever Fenris was in earshot.

"You're mooning again." Not even bothering to pretend he was embarrassed, Hawke waved absently in Varric's direction, keeping his eyes firmly trained on the elf perusing the weapons' stall nearby. "No, I take that back. You're leering—"

"Ogling," Hawke corrected, tilting his head as Fenris picked up a very sexy greatsword, twisting his wrist to check the balance and the grip. The taut, trim muscles in his arms rippled, and Hawke licked his lips against their sudden dryness. Between his balance and Fenris' grip, there were several entertaining ways they might spend the rest of their afternoon.

"_Leering._" The jab of a thick finger between his ribs made Hawke yelp, which in turn yanked Fenris' attention quickly away from the blade in his hands. Seeing no immediate danger, Fenris frowned in mild annoyance and turned back to his browsing.

Hawke frowned too, rubbing his side. "What? I'm still listening, you nasty little bugger. Our friends from the coast, a quick favour, they'll owe us one— I call bullshit on the lot, myself."

The fact that Hawke had indeed been listening and ogling simultaneously simply made Varric peer up at him flatly, with utterly no hint of apology for the needless assault. "So you're saying no, then?"

"I'm saying that if it stinks like rotten fish chowder, it probably is." Abandoning his attempts to undress Fenris with his eyes— he'd undress him with his hands soon enough, Maker willing— Hawke pressed his fingers against the knot of tension growing between his brows and dropped his voice to a murmur. "I'm saying that I hate bloody Antivans. Think they're the sodding bee's knees, and the rest of us are just fumbling around trying not to stick ourselves."

"Worried you don't measure up? And did you just say the _bee's knees_?"

"Oh, shut up." Ogling Fenris had been much more fun than being cajoled into a suspicious contract by his trusty, meddlesome dwarf, blight take him. "Are we playing on my pride so blatantly now? Really?"

Varric shrugged, mouth twitching. "Why not? It's working."

Maker's _balls_ the Antivan Crows always gave him such a headache; Hawke called up his deepest, longest, most put-upon sigh. "Fine, yes. Get me more details and I'll consider the favour. _Consider_ it, but no promises. Ugh, the flash bastards."

"You're a prince," Varric said smoothly, patting him on the lower back, and Hawke felt more like a puppy. "I'm headed back to the Hanged Man before I melt in this blighted sun; you go play with your elf. I won't need either of you until tomorrow."

"You are such a prick," he groused, flashing a gesture rude enough that a pair of passing ladies gasped and shot him dirty looks. Still, this was a dismissal he could definitely make work, ambling over towards Fenris without hesitation. Ogling had been fun, but molesting held a great deal of appeal as well.

It was a sweltering kind of day, which wasn't uncommon for the middle of Solace in Kirkwall, but there was just enough of a breeze blowing in from the water to banish the worst of the stinking mire Lowtown became during the summer months. Hawke undid the last few fasteners of his jerkin, letting the pale leather gape open to cool the sweaty, sticky mess of his shirt.

Fenris hardly sweated at all, except after a battle or if Hawke really worked at it, and his silky hair was almost perfectly dry when Hawke snuck close and brushed his nose just behind one long, delicate ear.

"Hawke." Fenris' voice was pitched low with warning, but he didn't even look up from the huge, hulking maul that had drawn his attention. The way his hands stroked over the weapon's handle, in such an erotically familiar and endearingly unintentionally way… Hawke chuckled warmly. "Stop it."

"Hardly," he purred, but hooked his thumbs in his own belt. Teasing was all well and good, but actually grabbing hold of Fenris in the middle of the bazaar would be courting a tad too much trouble. "My word, but that is quite the hammer you've got there, messere. So big, and long, and _hard_—"

The weapons' merchant caught at least some of that, if his deeply crimson flush and hasty retreat were any indication. Fenris simply sent Hawke a sceptical glance out of the corner of his eye, not even deigning to reply.

Whether it was the heat or the company, Hawke was feeling mischievous. Darting in, he pressed a quick peck against Fenris' cheek, earning himself a reproachful growl. "Hush, you crabby bastard. Meeting's been adjourned, and I'm far too warm to be wearing any clothes at all right now. If I were you, I'd take full advantage of my pliant state."

"You're confusing pliant with wanton." Fenris didn't exactly sound ecstatic about the proposition, but Hawke caught the tiny quirk of his lips. "And neither one is exactly a novel condition for you."

When Fenris set the maul back down amongst its brothers, Hawke made absolutely no attempt to hide his victorious grin; unfortunately, his triumph turned out to be rather premature. He took a courteous step back when Fenris moved, letting his eyes trace down the inviting lines of lyrium that spread down that elegant, tanned throat, disappearing past the collar of his leathers.

"Your mother is expecting us."

"I— what?" Blinking as the words made the markings shift and bob, Hawke took a moment to puzzle out their meaning. "It's not… Oh _shit._ Is that today?"

Fenris looked far too smug for a man who was not about to engage in a bout of sweaty, magnificent sex. "It is. We will not be late, either."

"Shit," he said again, pushing his hair off his brow and grimacing as it stayed in place, slicked back with perspiration. "Do you really want to traipse down into the sewers in this heat?"

The dour look he received clearly said yes, traipsing into the sewers was exactly what they were going to do, and Hawke barely stopped himself from asking if Fenris had learned that particular guilt-inducing expression from Lady Leandra herself. Such a perfect reflection of his mother's displeasure on his lover's face was more than enough to squash any hope of an erection in the near future, blast it all.

* * *

><p>The blessed breeze did not penetrate the Undercity quite as easily as it blew through Lowtown's high, craggy walls. The stink was hideously thick as they descended, and Hawke was vaguely concerned they might have stumbled into a swell of chokedamp, but it was just the charming aroma of baking effluence and filthy bodies.<p>

"You never take me anywhere nice," he muttered, stepping out of the rickety lift. "At least not without taking me somewhere awful first."

"They're your family," Fenris replied, glancing around with his usual wariness as they began the trek towards the estate's basement entrance. "I'm not taking you anywhere."

Ignoring the audience they'd no doubt garnered from the urchins and other undesirables skittering through the shadows, Hawke reached out a grabbed Fenris' hand quicker than the elf could protest. The metal of his gauntlet was very warm to the touch, almost like a living thing, and Hawke darted around until they stood nearly chest-to-chest.

"They're your family too, love," he said quietly, smiling as Fenris squirmed and shifted his eyes away. "Mother would be terribly put out if you thought otherwise."

"Your mother is too kind to me."

"Oh, I agree completely." Sliding his fingers around, Hawke tickled one callused palm before the hand in his grasp was snatched back. "She likes you more than she likes me, for Andraste's sake. I'm a tad jealous."

There was a faint pinkness creeping over Fenris' cheeks, and if they weren't arse deep in the most miserable shithole in Thedas, Hawke definitely would have plied him with an utterly filthy kiss. He settled for reaching out and ruffling snow-white hair, then deftly avoided being smacked for doing so.

"I suppose I am less infuriating." With exasperation layered over affection, Fenris motioned for them to continue on. "And better behaved."

* * *

><p>They were a tiny bit late, and Hawke was man enough to admit it was mostly his fault, but they'd run across Tomwise and the elf had needed to talk shop for just a few minutes. As it happened, it was a rather important detour— apparently their friends from the coast had already been sniffing around Darktown and the alienage, as well as paying good coin for poison ingredients. If the Crows were buying ingredients in Kirkwall, it meant they'd likely been lurking for some time, or they'd had sufficient opportunity to use up all the supplies they would have brought from home.<p>

The banter with Tomwise was also enough to put Fenris in a possessive kind of mood, even though Hawke hadn't enjoyed more than words with the doe-eyed mixer in years. Still, his lover had scowled from the moment Tomwise stood too close and flashed that first wiry smirk. Then Hawke was rewards with a much cooler version of his usual stoic demeanour until they'd both scaled the ladder into his mother's estate— nothing quite frosty enough to warrant mentioning, but not as pleased as he might have been.

Making sure the entry was bolted securely behind them, Hawke felt Fenris draw up close to his back even before he turned around. The sprawling basement was almost eerily quiet, other than the two of them.

Very slowly, Hawke spun on his heel, only to find a fiercely smouldering elf looming barely a handbreadth from him, just as near as he'd expected. His heart sped up, and one quick step back pressed his shoulders against the wall; of course, Fenris followed.

"So," he said cheerily, allowing himself to be crowded in without more than a shiver of reaction, and that was only because of the clatter of a gauntlet being tossed to the floor. Fenris had one naked hand now, shimmering with graceful patterns in the dimness of the basement, and one gauntlet braced beside Hawke's shoulder. "Tomwise looked well, didn't he?"

When the only reply was that very friendly hand palming him firmly through his trousers, Hawke whined and started chewing on his bottom lip. This was unanticipated and already such a grand notion, but he couldn't start gibbering and moaning in his mother's house right before they all sat down for a lovely family meal— not again, anyway.

Fenris pressed even closer, setting a dangerously perfect rhythm of rubbing and squeezing, and Hawke fumbled valiantly to free his hardening cock before he made a mess of his clothes, unlacing and pushing trousers and smallclothes down his thighs and yanking his shirt out of the way. Relentless and steady, Fenris didn't pause to help for an instant, transitioning smoothly to jacking him off once Hawke finished all the dirty work.

He was utterly spellbound, trapped like a startled hare staring down a fox as Fenris held his gaze with hot, hooded eyes. Not a word— no forceful growls of _mine_, or anything similar— but this silent, intense claiming was no less effective. All attempts to work Fenris' straining erection out of his leggings were slapped away, and eventually Hawke settled for grabbing two handfuls of tight, firm arse instead, kneading desperately.

Almost soon enough to be shameful, he came with a muffled shout, swallowed up in a deep, searching kind of kiss. Before his hips had even finished their last stuttering thrusts, Hawke found himself being turned around, trousers pushed down farther and legs kicked wide apart. This had to be a dream, the _best dream_, because nowhere outside the glorious realms of the Fade and his raunchy subconscious would Fenris have him bent over and spread wide, roughly fingerfucking him in his mother's basement.

"Yes," he hissed softly, pushing back against the two insistent digits twisting into him, slick with his own spunk. "Maker, _yes_, Fenris—" The fingers slipped away, replaced almost too quickly by a familiar pressure, a delicious stretch with a bite of burn, and Hawke felt his toes curl in his boots.

The sharp tips of a gauntlet scratched lightly over his thigh, and after a moment to adjust, the first brutally hard thrust nearly drove him through the wall. Hawke gasped, bracing himself as Fenris pounded mercilessly, but still the elf didn't make a sound beyond heavy breathing and the occasional grunt. It was incredibly good, entirely unexpected, and more than enough to make Hawke's over-sensitive cock twitch painfully, eager to rejoin the party.

Then Fenris pushed down on his spine, changing the angle and barraging him with an assault of quick, deep pounding, and Hawke saw stars.

Sometime thereafter, Hawke found himself stumbling over towards one of the piles of miscellany his mother had stored under the estate, wiping himself into some relative state of neatness on a musty length of drop cloth. His knees felt wobbly, and his arse was throbbing— a fine state for an evening at home, certainly, but a bit uncomfortable for their current undertaking.

"_I'm_ wanton," he grumbled, tucking his abused prick away with a wince. Wicked fingers had managed to draw a second, pitiful orgasm out of him shortly before Fenris had finished up, but not without some lingering objections from his aching balls. "Sure. Maker's breath, I'm going to be walking with a limp, and we smell like a blighted brothel. I hope you enjoy emotionally scarring my baby sister."

Fenris was smirking, cleaning himself with another corner of the sheet, and the smug satisfaction all but oozing from his pores was unfairly sexy. Buckling his belt and smoothing down his shirt, trying to look even slightly less fucked, Hawke reached out and gently flicked the tip of one pointed ear. Instead of a glare, however, he got a hand clasping his and a soft kiss pressed against the inside of his wrist.

Fantastic. Because all he needed was a fluttery stomach to go with his wobbly knees— the goofy, besotted expression such a kiss plastered across his face certainly didn't help with the projection of innocence he'd been desperately trying to piece together. His mother was going to take one look at them, all rumpled and moony and stinking of sex, and Hawke was going to kill himself.

Not that it wasn't entirely worth it.

* * *

><p>He could meld into any crowd, become any type of person in the pursuit of a target, but trying to play it cool while his mother kissed him on the cheek and sniffed pointedly was beyond even his tremendous skills. Perhaps he could crawl back down into the basement and dig himself a nice, cosy hole before he died.<p>

It was hardly the first time he'd been caught in a compromising position by his beloved mother, but despite his usual brazen disposition, it had never been anything less than a mortifying experience. She was just… she was his _mother,_ and Maker save him, she was always so bloody amused by the whole thing. He still had nightmares about her quickly retreating giggles when she'd caught him sucking off some fetching farmer's son in the back of their barn in Lothering.

It would have been so much easier if she'd simply shrieked and never, ever spoken about it again, instead of glancing up from her washing as he slunk back into the house and asking if the _nice young man_ would be staying for supper.

Hawke had never actually taken her up on that teasing offer until Fenris. Now, family suppers with his _well-mannered elf gentleman_ were a routine event every few weeks— less often than his mother might like, but it was too great a risk to be seen frequently in Hightown, or to be seen in this estate at all.

"Hello, Mother," he said, forcing a calm smile and pressing the usual pouch of sovereigns into her hand. "Sorry we're late. Fenris couldn't decide what to wear."

"Oh I'm sure, darling. Thank you." With an indulgent roll of her eyes— which was better than that knowing lift of her brow, at any rate— Leandra tucked the coin into the folds of her skirt and turned her attention to the elf. "Maker knows he's impossible, but thank _you_ for getting him here before pudding, Fenris dear."

Inclining his head, Fenris was entirely composed, the _bastard_. "As you say, madam."

"You both are always such fun," Hawke muttered, wandering off in the direction of the dining room with a mabari glued to the side of his leg. It was much more practical for Darby to stay in Hightown protecting his mother and Bethany, but that didn't mean the dog revelled in being separated from his master most of the time. The hulking mutt simply wasn't much good at the cloak and dagger, though.

Supper was already laid out when he sauntered in, and suddenly the reason Bethany hadn't come out to greet her dear brother became abundantly clear. There was an extra place set at the table, and a familiar, scruffy mage filling the seat. A familiar, scruffy mage currently suffering blatantly adoring looks from Hawke's baby sister.

Oh, this was going to go swimmingly.

"Anders," he barked, only aware after the fact that his tone was going to be so sharp. The man— the grown man, at _least_ five years too old and ten times too crazy for Bethany— had the decency to jump with alarm, and look mildly uncomfortable. "This is unexpected."

"I'm not— that is—"

"Oh stop it, brother." Standing, Bethany pursed her lips and came over for a hug, whispering directly into Hawke's ear when she leaned close. "If you ruin this I'll set your hair on fire."

"Noted," he murmured in return, then kissed her forehead and raised his voice. "Well hello to you too, baby sister." It was possible he emphasised the _baby_ part a little more than necessary, and if Anders' squirming was any indication, he'd noticed as well.

"Do sit before it gets cold, love," his mother said from the doorway, ushering Fenris into the room as well. Ah yes, an extra mage at the table would certainly put his lover at ease.

Shockingly enough, supper was a little tense. Fenris and Bethany had come to something of an accord months before in regards to mage freedoms and how it was better for everyone if they simply didn't discuss it, which was entirely fine by Hawke. Privately, Fenris had even grudgingly admitted that Bethany was surprisingly strong of will and kind of heart, which was possibly the nicest thing he'd ever said about a mage. Much nicer than calling her a viper, and also less likely to end in a week long, sex-free argument with Hawke.

Anders, on the other hand, had no such compunctions and apparently no sense of appropriate small talk. By the end of the main course, Fenris excused himself gruffly, and Hawke followed, tailing his tightly wound lover into the library.

"The mage is an arrogant, unthinking fool," Fenris snarled the moment the library door closed behind them. "And he will drag your sister down into his insanity. This cannot be allowed to stand."

Squatting next to the mabari who'd decided to join them as well, Hawke scratched Darby's velvety ears. "Relax, love. We've got little to worry about, I'd wager."

Without even looking up from the blissfully content hound, Hawke knew Fenris was staring at him with absolute incredulity. A quick glance confirmed it, and he bit back a sigh. "All right, stop gaping at me and listen. I was ready to gut him the moment I walked in the room, but all is not as it appears. Trust your devious little scoundrel."

Padding over, Fenris crossed his arms and tilted his chin, waiting. "Explain what you mean."

"Our sweet Bethany's gotten herself a bit dazzled by the charming apostate." Giving Darby a final rub on the muzzle, Hawke stood. "She's all aflutter from helping him heal the wretched, unwashed masses in that clinic of his, having the chance to use her magic charitably, and listening to him harp on about his great romantic causes." Watching Fenris' brows furrow, Hawke shrugged, letting a small grin play around his mouth. He wondered vaguely what it would be like to notice only one or two layers of meaning in a conversation, never mind body language; probably rather quiet, possibly quite dull. "Anders himself is distinctly less dazzled by the impressionable young mage, which is terribly lucky for him. If I had to cut his balls off for touching my sister, Bethany would probably be cross."

"What?" Rather than look appeased, Fenris seemed affronted. "Then he's playing on her affections for his own ends. You have to tell her so, before—"

One finger just touching Fenris' lips startled the elf into silence, and Hawke was rather pleased he didn't get a glare for his trouble. "Ah, no, I'm going to let him tell her. Whether he royally cocks it up or lets her down easy, it'll be the best way to burst the _rebel mage_ bubble, too. Bethany's too soft hearted for her own good, but she's no freedom fighter." Leaning in, Hawke claimed a very brief kiss, letting his hand linger on Fenris' jaw. "It's very sweet that you're concerned about my sister. I think I'm rather dazzled, myself."

Fenris grunted, scowling just a little, but didn't move away. "If he continues to pester me about the Tevinter Chantry, I will kill him. In this house, if need be."

Bolstered by the easy acceptance of touch, Hawke smiled into another, longer kiss until Fenris pushed him back. "Hm, you may not need to kill him; Mother knows he's upset you. I'll be surprised if he's still here when we go back out."

Rather than puff up about the maternal doting, Fenris merely shot a dark glance in the direction of the door. "Your mother would be wise to throw that idiot out, for whatever reason, but I… I should not have let him bother me. It was rude to storm off like a child."

"It was less rude than tearing his heart out over the roast." The smallest twitch at the corner of Fenris' mouth was probably the best Hawke could have expected at the moment, and he beamed when he saw it. "Right, are we off to dessert or begging pardon to head back home? Either is fine with me."

"Dessert," Fenris said firmly. "I'll not be driven off by that mage."

Anders was indeed nowhere to be found when Hawke and Fenris returned to the dining room, but Bethany was still sulking in her seat, nearly in tears. Before Fenris could do more than stiffen uncomfortably at the sight, she was staring up at them both with those wide, sorrowful brown eyes that, in Hawke's experience, had never failed to melt even the hardest heart.

"Oh Fenris," she said miserably, twisting her napkin. "I'm _so_ sorry. Anders… he was unkind and unfair, and you—"

Hawke kept careful control of his eyebrows, aware that they were trying to creep up towards his hairline, while Fenris raised one placating hand, shifting awkwardly and leaning ever so slightly closer to Hawke.

"Do not apologise," he rumbled. "It was an unfortunate exchange, but now it's done. I'm simply sorry it interrupted a lovely meal."

Bethany flushed, dropping her gaze into her lap, and Hawke gave Fenris a small bump to get him moving. The lady of the house was tutting, as flustered as a mother hen with missing chicks, and Hawke knew she wouldn't calm down until Fenris was sitting with a slice of custard tart in front of him.

Also, conflict made him hungry, and Bethany's famed custard tart was fit for the Maker's own table. If his darling mother and sister were feeling especially guilty about this debacle, there was a good chance any leftover pudding might get bundled up in a care package.

It was somehow comforting to know that the city's mage tensions had a silver lining… or a creamy, golden custard filling. Either was acceptable.

* * *

><p>For some reason, Varric had interpreted <em>get me more details<em> as a perfect opportunity to snare Hawke into a meeting with their shady, stabby friends. And, just as he'd expected, the offer sounded even worse coming directly from the Crow's beak.

"Ah, I am afraid I must decline a formal arrangement, serah." Hawke smiled apologetically across the width of Varric's table, while the Crow's dark eyes narrowed fractionally. These swaggering Antivan bastards weren't used to hearing _no_, except of course the ever popular _Maker no, please, don't kill me._ "But if I catch wind of any rumours that might assist you in your hunt, I'll let you know."

"You _decline_?" The Crow, a wet-winged human lad with a lisping accent barely removed from his native soil, wasn't quite polished enough to keep his surprise and frustration fully suppressed. Whoever was leading this merry band of assassins hadn't sent an especially seasoned man to head these discussions, but Hawke wasn't insulted. Actually, the fact that they'd sent someone so very disposable was a different message altogether. "The contract is already most generous. You would hold out for more gold?"

Varric saw the fledgling for what he was as well, and didn't take great pains to hide the questioning look he levelled at Hawke, but didn't speak. For the benefit of both Crow and dwarf, Hawke shook his head.

"No, I would not. I would refuse the contract outright, full stop, no bargaining. Tell your master that I'll happily keep out of the way during your stay in fair Kirkwall, but that's all. Thank you, however, for the most generous offer."

"This…" The boy (probably younger than Bethany, blight take the bloody Crows), muttered a few words in Antivan before getting to his feet, sneering. "You have made a grave mistake, one you will regret. We offered friendship, and—"

"Enough." Standing, towering over the pretty lad and slipping easily into the cold mantle of _assassin_, Hawke watched the young Crow flinch. "I've given my answer politely, as friends deserve, but now you're annoying me. Fly to your master before I send you back in pieces, little bird."

At least the boy was smart enough not to go for his daggers; Hawke was mildly aggravated, but it wasn't anything to spill blood over. He also knew enough Antivan to realise he was called a stupid son of a whore before the Crow stormed off, but that was business as usual when dealing with Antivans.

"All right," Varric murmured after the door slammed shut. "So I'll admit it sounded fishy, but you've got some serious concerns. Fill me in."

"I'm fairly sure," Hawke replied, stretching his arms above his head for a moment and banishing the poison out of his tone. "That this is one of those _no loose ends_ scenarios our melodramatic friends are so very fond of. You know they're tracking one of their own?"

Nodding, Varric played with the rim of his goblet— Antivan wine for their Antivan guest, though the Crow hadn't touched a drop. "Mm, that is the gossip, and Junior there hinted as much, though I'm under the impression he wasn't exactly meant to spill those beans."

"Yes, well, not even I get a bag of sovereigns and a handshake after a job like that." Hawke didn't sit back down, feeling twitchy. "They'll keep it all in House, if you catch my meaning. That lot's all about politics and maintaining their untouchable image. Viciously hunting down someone who dared defy them sounds better without the _and then we had to hire outside help_ addendum."

"We had to meet with them, at least." Sipping the wine, Varric made a pleased noise. "They sent an agent; asked for you by name. And Maker's blessed balls, the _gold_, Hawke. If there was a chance the deal was good, I wasn't going to pass it up blind."

"Perish the thought we miss out on a small fortune, but I'll probably make more coin in the long run if I'm, you know, not dead."

"You're so picky." Before Hawke could respond to the teasing slight, Varric frowned into his goblet. "Shit. I'm going to get some runners moving, try to figure out what specific cell this is. I'll feel better about the jumped-up bullshit that kid was peddling if I know who's leading this dance."

Nodding, Hawke stepped away from the table and tried not to start pacing, already considering all the eyes that might have seen him climb into the estate's basement the day before. Probably no Crows, but there were enough wagging tongues in Darktown to make the soles of his feet itch, yearning to _go, seek, protect_. He had relatively good relations with some Antivans higher up in their pecking order, but other masters might be less forgiving of his refusal to kowtow.

"You've got a couple of respectable blades who'd love to play servant for a fortnight, don't you Varric? Preferably women."

"I can think of one or two. Check with Fenris, he might have some ideas as well." Varric already looked like his mind was travelling in a dozen different directions. Hawke really only cared for one, and it was up Hightown way. "I'll do everything I can on my end, Hawke. Whatever you need, just ask."

"For now, just the servants. And your ear to the ground."

"Always." Motioning to the door, Varric offered a smile that straddled some strange border between charming and tense. It was an expression Hawke thought he might borrow for his upcoming discussion with his mother and sister, when he had to explain the new, well-armed help around the house. "Be safe, Hawke. Send Mica up when you go, and I'll get started."

* * *

><p>Convincing Fenris that they shouldn't simply squat in his mother's estate until this matter was resolved had been a gruelling test of patience, but eventually Hawke managed to cram an ounce of logic between those pointed ears. If the Crows were indeed holding a grudge, what possible sense did it make to put all potential targets in one convenient place?<p>

"I don't like it," Fenris growled _again_, glaring daggers into their cold hearth. Hawke watched his own expression pinch in the polished surface of his shaving mirror, but kept combing the spicy scented tinting paste through his hair. He'd go very dark this time, nearly blue-black if he'd mixed all the different powdered leaves properly, and he had to be extremely careful not to let it drip onto his skin.

"Really," he said, scraping excess dye back into his mixing bowl. "Because I'm simply overjoyed about the whole thing." Tossing the stained comb aside, Hawke picked up a small, fine-tipped brush and began the delicate task of darkening his eyebrows as well. "Maker knows I love adding such excitement to Mother and Bethany's lives at any opportunity. Warms my heart."

The silence from the hearth was heavy, a blaring kind of quiet, and after bearing it for only a few moments, Hawke sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, love; I don't mean to be an arse. It's not as though I'm angry at you."

"No, you're angry at yourself." Footsteps came closer, and Hawke paused his slow brushstrokes, glancing over. Fenris moved near enough to rest on arm on the back of Hawke's chair, and the barest brush of fingers on his neck (hopefully avoiding his hairline) was grounding. "Would your family be any safer if you'd accepted the contract, then died in some back alley when these Crows were finished with you?"

"They'd be safer if I was a blighted _tailor_." Taking a deep breath as Fenris squeezed his shoulder, Hawke collected himself and finished applying the last smidgen of dye. "Ack, I'd be such an awful tailor… not enough stabbing, even with all those pins. Did I miss any spots?"

"None that I see." He'd still have to shave— Fenris might be able to pull off the piebald look, but a blond beard would do Hawke's camouflage no favours. It was a pity too; he'd been keeping his usual scruff a bit fuller ever since he'd learned that nuzzling it against the inside of Fenris' thighs could make his lover purr.

It was cooler inside their tenement than outside in the sun, but Hawke could already feel the paste start to itch uncomfortably. Waiting for the tint to set, he pulled off the thin leather gloves he kept for just such a mess and started picking out the ingredients for his skin lotion. Sweet merciful Andraste, he _hated_ the Antivan Crows.

A few hours later, Hawke was tilting his mirror around, peering at a different scoundrel altogether. His hair was still wet from rinsing, but it already looked decent— dark as a raven's wing (or a crow's, funnily enough), and not ashy at all. His skin had gone from peaches and cream to something decidedly more olive, but not conspicuously chestnut; this was Kirkwall, after all, not Rivain. The swarthy complexion would have been a bit more convincing without crystal blue eyes glittering under his newly blackened brows, but it was adequate.

He tried not to dwell on the idea that it may have all been wasted effort. Any half-competent Crow would see through such a disguise— they used the same dyes and tricks— but Hawke wasn't about to just sit back and make it easy for them. It was also very possible that the Crows didn't actually care one wit for him, or at least cared more about their renegade brother, and there really wasn't anything to worry about.

It wasn't the kind of _possible_ that he'd bet his own life on, let alone the lives of his family, but it was something he kept in the back of his mind.

* * *

><p>Scrubbing his head again with the damp cloth he'd slung over his shoulders, Hawke set the mirror down and turned to where his lover was perched on the settee, oiling his greatsword. That would have been such a beautiful euphemism, if circumstances weren't so bloody tense.<p>

"What do you think, love?" He ran his fingers through the inky mop in an attempt to tame it, then put on a winning smile. "Have my golden good looks been suitably suppressed?"

Fenris craned his neck around, studying the results with what felt like a very critical eye. The notion that Fenris might not be quite so taken with this temporary change in appearance had been a selfish, vain fear gnawing deep in Hawke's gut, and he tried not to fidget when the silent staring went on a bit too long.

Finally, mercifully, Fenris spoke. "It's… very different."

Or possibly not so mercifully. There was a strange, wavering discomfort in that usually steadfast tone that made Hawke's stomach drop. It wasn't the end of the world, but this entire debacle was difficult enough without knowing he had to bear being unattractive to the one person whose opinion really mattered in that regard.

"It's only for a month or so," he heard himself say with painfully false optimism. "Sooner if we get things sorted out, but I think I look rather dashing in an exotic sort of way. Or maybe like a grubby raider."

When Fenris set his sword aside and unfolded himself from the settee, Hawke swallowed thickly but didn't move otherwise. He was still being regarded curiously, and now he was being approached with measured care, almost as if he truly was a stranger.

He didn't realise he'd been holding his breath until Fenris reached up and touched his cheek, and the achingly welcome contact made him exhale with relief. There were many peculiar issues his lover still struggled with on a daily basis, but the fact that he was willing to touch was a very good sign.

Fenris was still in his leathers, though his gauntlets and chestpiece had been discarded before the disguising process had begun in earnest. The callused pads of his fingers smelled of the oil he used on his blade, sweet and herbal, and they rubbed slowly along Hawke's freshly shaved jaw.

"Smooth," he said quietly, then moved his attentions farther up to card through the hair above Hawke's ear. "Not grubby in the slightest, but somewhat exotic this far south, perhaps. The humans of Seheron and the northern Imperium are often coloured like this, if not darker. There's far more sun to tan the skin, especially if one is not a magister, and hair as fair as yours is especially rare."

Hawke still heard uncertainty, but also a bit of heat lacing through the murmured words. The latter was a very pleasant surprise.

He tilted his head in the direction of those stroking fingers, encouraging. "Are you saying I was some exotic beauty to you before? Your very own milky skinned, flaxen-haired Fereldan?"

The affectionate smirk that garnered was certainly on Hawke's list of desired responses, as was the kiss that followed. The leather that hugged Fenris' waist was warm under Hawke's palms, supple for all its toughness, but it wasn't quite as good as the narrow line of marvellous skin left largely bare down his back. Moving close and scratching one blunt nail along that elegant spine made Fenris arch deeper into the kiss, his hand tightening in Hawke's hair.

It was the kind of thing that would have led to thoroughly debauched sex on the settee, on an ordinary day. At that moment, however, he still needed to get dressed and sneak out of his own home, then trudge up to Hightown. The new servants-cum-bodyguards were already in place, but the sooner he could explain the seriousness of the situation to his mother and Bethany, the better he'd feel.

The fact that he was being blue-balled did not endear the Crows to him in the slightest, not that he needed more reasons to despise their meddlesome, arrogant arses.

"I've got to go," he said hoarsely, once he'd forced himself to pull away from Fenris' hot, eager mouth. The sight of peridot eyes blown black with desire and those sinfully full lips moist and reddened was enough to make him groan pitifully, resting his forehead against Fenris' for a moment. "I'll meet you at the Hanged Man in a few hours. Be careful."

"I think I can handle an assassin or two, if it comes to that." Fenris was ill at ease, that was obvious, but also exactly as powerfully determined as Hawke expected. It was a comfort. "_You_ be careful."

"I'm always careful." The hand still in his hair pinched the shell of his ear very hard, making him yelp and draw back. "Ah! Mercy, you wretch— Fine, yes, I'll be especially careful, I swear." Before he fully unwound himself from their embrace, Hawke leaned in and brushed his lips against the strong bridge of Fenris' nose. "On my word as your friend, I swear."

* * *

><p>"Hawke!" At the sound of that word ringing out across the Lowtown bazaar, Hawke didn't allow his stride to falter even for a moment. Inwardly, he prayed there was some sort of falconer around the next corner, or a poor confused raptor swooping around the slums. His disguise wasn't <em>that<em> bloody awful— after the correct password and a flash of his House Tethras token had gotten him into the estate, his own mother hadn't even recognised him straight off.

Maybe the problem was that he prayed to the Maker about it, a god who'd not only abandoned humanity, but who probably wouldn't have much to do with crazy little Dalish elves regardless.

It was difficult to keep up a steady stride when exactly such a crazy little elf stepped right in front of him, blocking his path with an utterly guileless smile.

"Hawke," Merrill chirped again, just as brightly but blessedly a little quieter than a moment before. "I've been looking all over for you! I'm supposed to give you a note, and— Oh!"

For once, Hawke was almost glad about the general uncaring attitude humans had about elves; if anyone even bothered to look at the rather boorish sell-sword manhandling the petite elf into an alley, they didn't look _twice_.

"Shut up," he growled darkly, mostly for the benefit of any nearby ears, then dropped his voice to something decidedly softer once he'd crowded her behind a pile of crates. "_Hush_, Merrill. Maker's breath, girl."

"I didn't… I mean… oh, _abelas_…" She shrank back against the alley wall, making _that face_. The sweet, openly apologetic _you just kicked my puppy, but **I'm** so sorry about it, since I'm sure you had good reason_ expression that reminded him so damned much of Bethany it made his heart lurch.

It was the exact same expression that had convinced him to occasionally check in on the transplanted Dalish after their interesting trek up Sundermount years before, with the bit-o-witch in tow (he might be a liar and a scoundrel, but he always kept his word to dragons). If he ever managed to master that expression himself, he'd never have to neutralise a guard again; he'd just pout his way through even the toughest contracts, and wouldn't that be lovely.

"It's fine," he murmured, resting one elbow against the wall beside her head and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just… just don't call me Hawke for a couple of weeks, all right? I'm trying to avoid the notice of some particularly disagreeable people. If you're hit with the uncontrollable urge to holler a name through the streets, try Bennett."

Merrill frowned, twisting her fingers. "Bennett?"

"At your service." Offering a grin that was a hundred times jauntier than he felt, Hawke glanced very briefly at the mouth of the alley. There was no sign of a single concerned (or nosy) citizen, which was hardly unexpected. "Now you said something about a note?"

"I did? Yes, of course I did." Fishing around in one of her belt pouches, Merrill pulled out a small, slightly crumpled scrap of vellum, then held it out to him almost reverently, as if it were made of Orlesian crystal. "I'm supposed to give this to you, and only to you… or to Hawke really, but that's still you, and I promise that's the last time I'll say that name." Taking a shuddering breath, Merrill wiggled the vellum slightly. "It's apparently very important."

He was wearing gloves, and Merrill wasn't, so he wasn't terribly concerned about poisoned ink. Plucking the note from his anxious, amateur courier, Hawke carefully unfolded the thin paper and read the legible if flamboyantly cursive script scrawled across it.

_It seems we have common acquaintances, my friend, and a common problem. Consider this an offer of assistance, should you be of a mind to settle such unpleasantness with all due haste. Perhaps I could buy you a drink?_

"Shit." Tucking the note into his own belt, Hawke resisted a stupid urge to punch the wall. He was not one for explosions of frustration, not like Carver had been, but this was simply getting worse with every passing hour. "Who gave you this note, Merrill?"

"One of the little ones in the alienage— I don't know his name. Most of the parents tell their children to keep away from me." Cruel perhaps, but also understandable from where Hawke was standing (which was usually far, far away from blood magic, unless it couldn't be helped; Malcolm Hawke hadn't merely instilled a healthy wariness of demons in his mage daughter). "He said a man in a hood gave him two silver and told him to give the note and one of the coins to me, and I was supposed to make sure you got the message. I let the _da'len_ keep the money, and now I've delivered the note. Is it not good news? You look… cross."

Shaking his head, Hawke pushed off from the wall with a sigh. "Not cross at you, truly. And no, probably not good news, but it is good that you brought it to me. Thank you." Then he paused, considering. "Merrill, how exactly did you recognise me? I've tried for a bit of a disguise here, if you haven't noticed."

"I'm sorry," she answered quickly, blushing faintly under her tattoos. "It's just… sometimes it's hard to tell humans apart, so I didn't really notice you looked different until you told me to shut up in that angry voice and pushed me down here." He winced a little at that, but Merrill didn't seem at all upset about his lapse in manners. "I saw you walking, and you had the same aura as always— so certain and clever— and I didn't even think to look at your face or your hair or anything. I'm sorry if I mucked something up."

If Merrill was recognising him through his _aura_… well, Hawke wasn't quite sure what to do about that. On occasion, he had to change his posture, bearing, and demeanour if a job required it, becoming a different person altogether, but he hadn't been caught out like this in years. Yet, there was apparently some kind of _Hawke_ vibe he was giving off, and this odd young woman was picking up. Not the worst thing he'd discovered that week, but not brilliant, either.

"Right." There was absolutely no time at the moment to delve into what Merrill might mean specifically, and Hawke filed it away for future investigation. "Probably for the best if you stick close to home for a bit, yes? Steer clear of the Hanged Man for at least a week or two, and either Varric or I will let you know when this all blows over."

"All right, Haw— _Bennett_. Sorry."

Smiling again, Hawke shifted his stance back into the mildly belligerent slouch of Bennett-the-mercenary. "Stay safe, Merrill. You know how Varric worries."

* * *

><p><em>Perhaps I could buy you a drink?<em>

If Hawke thought about that note too hard, the one currently burning a hole in his belt pouch, he wouldn't go meet Fenris in the tavern as they'd planned. Stepping foot in the Hanged Man was obviously a Very Bad Idea, if not an incredibly blatant trap. Even _considering_ it was pure idiocy.

And yet, there he was.

Skulking past the bar, Hawke headed straight for Varric's suite— Bennett was a merc, after all, and so hardly out of place paying the dwarf a visit. It wasn't the subtlest persona he'd ever put together, but it worked within the confines of their current dilemma, and got him places he needed to be.

Knocking sharply on Varric's door, Hawke waited for the muffled inquiry before barking out a gruff reply. "It's Bennett. You called for me, messere."

There was a pause, just a heartbeat too long, before Varric invited him in. Hawke palmed a small smoke bomb in one hand, but didn't draw a blade; Varric had said _come in_, not _come on in_, and there was a world of difference between the two. They had company, sure, but not necessarily the hostile kind.

Pushing the door open, Hawke immediately looked to where Varric sat at the head of the table. A flicker of tawny brown eyes was all the warning Hawke needed; pivoting sharply, he kept his stance defensive and his hands hovering near his blades.

Their company was leaning casually against the column that separated Varric's bed from the rest of the room. An elf— tanned, blond, and devilishly handsome with his smooth half-smirk and the air of confidence about him— holding up one empty hand in a gesture of amity.

"Peace, my friend," the elf drawled quietly, very obviously Antivan (likely from Antiva City or farther south, if his accent was honest). "I do hope you received my note."

Keeping his movements slow and measured, Hawke stepped farther inside the room and pulled the door closed. He had every intention of keeping this discussion friendly if possible, but then he caught sight of one familiar clawed gauntlet just visible on the floor of Varric's bedroom, with a limp, lyrium etched palm inside it. There was a faint scent in the air, barely noticeable: the musk of deep mushroom, deathroot, and the foul stink of drakestone.

Fenris was there, dead, unconscious, or paralysed. None of those options boded especially well for the Antivan elf.

Hawke watched as all levity drained from the elf's expression, and thought absently that his own rage must have shown on his face. Varric no doubt caught it as well, if in profile, and the only thing that stopped Hawke's vicious rush forward was his friend's calmly spoken order.

"Hawke, don't move." The hand not clutching the thin glass flask of smoke bomb squeezed into a tight, painful fist, but otherwise Hawke stayed perfectly still. Years of camaraderie and partnership meant he trusted Varric, though at that particular moment, that trust was barely enough to keep him steady. "Fenris is fine… a bit knocked out, but otherwise fine. He objected rather strongly to having a discussion with our new friend here."

Machinations were not Fenris' game, nor would they likely ever be. It was actually one of the less bawdy reasons Hawke enjoyed his company so very much.

Fine, but knocked out. Lucky for their guest, Hawke could work with that.

"I'm checking on him," Hawke said, motioning sharply for the Antivan to get out of his way. There was no need for threats or warnings; they both knew the steps to this dance, prowling slowly towards then past each other without making any sudden moves. Still keeping the other man in sight, but trusting Varric to keep a sharper eye on him, Hawke knelt beside Fenris' unconscious body, sprawled inelegantly but breathing.

The smell of specially mixed miasma was thicker here, clinging to Fenris as heady and noxious an Orlesian's cologne, but it wasn't anything Hawke couldn't fix. Even as Bennett, he carried a few of his usual supplies, including a small enamelled box. Pulling his gloves off and tossing them aside, Hawke cracked open the lid only long enough to take a small pinch of the bitter powder, then tucked the box away again. He briefly considered the best way to ensure waking his lover up wouldn't end in a bloody mess, and settled on talking incessantly. With his disguise, he could hardly rely on being recognised by his enchanting visage alone.

"I'm going to give you _such_ a hard time about this, you know." Shifting closer, Hawke folded his legs more comfortably and dragged Fenris' lolling head and shoulders up onto his thighs. "Bit of smoke—" There was an egg swelling on Fenris' temple, and Hawke swallowed a swell of sour anger as he carded soft white hair. "And a knock on the head and you're down for the count. Shameful."

Holding a hand over Fenris' mouth, Hawke brought the snuff just under his nostrils, still talking. "Considering how bloody stubborn you are, I expected your skull—"

With a sputtering cough, Fenris jerked back into consciousness, lighting up like firefly, but Hawke kept his hands in place, gently cupping a suddenly tense jaw. There was a split second of danger, of uncertainty, before Hawke saw recognition flicker in unfocused eyes.

Covering his wheezing cough with one hand, Fenris reached back and took hold of Hawke's forearm with the other, gripping firmly. "I… Callum…"

"What was it you said? _I think I can handle an assassin or two_?" Grinning a bit tightly, Hawke brushed his thumbs along tanned cheeks. "Well done, you."

That got Fenris up and moving again, which was sort of the point— the silent presence of their guest made this an unwise moment for a romantic reunion. Lurching to his feet, his face twisting with what Hawke had little doubt was pain and more than a touch of nausea, Fenris was every inch a wounded predator.

"Everyone calm down," Varric snapped, still seated. "One more brawl in my room and they're going to raise my rent. Elf, I've got your sword up here." Hawke stood, moving close behind Fenris' shoulder for a brief, soothing moment before padding into the main room.

The Antivan shrugged, his expression more subdued than before, but still with a roguish smile. "I come in friendship, as I've said. Apologies for my part in the scuffle, but you've quite the quick temper, my glowing friend."

Before Fenris could snarl out precisely where this Antivan could shove his friendship, and then possibly show him what kind of damage a very unfriendly, phased fist could do there too, Hawke cut in. "A misunderstanding, all around, but no permanent damage. Moving on, serah, we have not been introduced."

"Of course, forgive me." Dropping into a shallow though showy bow, the Antivan's lips curled wider, playful. "I am Zevran Arainai, adventurer and occasional assassin. I believe my former brothers may have mentioned me to you."

Tilting his head in greeting, Hawke found himself returning a slight reflection of the impish expression— it was purely habit; he was still rather cross about the _knocking Fenris out_ thing. "And I'm Hawke, though I'm sure someone's mentioned me to you. The couriered message was proof enough of that." Nearby, Fenris made a low, outraged kind of sound (Hawke wasn't certain for what _specific_ reason, and he wasn't about to ask), but otherwise held his tongue. "Are you the cause of all my Crow trouble, serah?"

"Ah, Zevran, please." Now _this_ was the type of Antivan Hawke preferred: charming, flirty, and not spitting threats at him. "Or simply Zev, if you like, and I'm certain I cannot take credit for all of your current troubles. Most of them, perhaps, but your reputation is at least partially to blame. For all their desperation to see me gutted like a fish, the Guild wouldn't hire just anyone."

"Try to hire," Hawke corrected. "I did refuse the contract."

"So I'd heard. Very wise of you." Waving one hand slowly in the direction of the table, Zevran sighed softly. "Must we stand about, puffing and clucking at each other like fighting cocks waiting to be set loose, or could we sit and discuss? Unlike my former brothers, I have absolutely nothing to gain by ending your life."

Even with Fenris still suffering slightly from his unwilling jaunt into oblivion, it would be three-on-one if anything untoward occurred. That in mind, Hawke nodded amiably. "After you."

Fenris was just itching to give him an earful; Hawke could feel the weight of a glare pressing against the back of his head, as sharp and heavy as the greatsword propped up by Varric's chair.

Well, he could feel free to keep up the fierce looks and scowls if that's what blew his skirt up, but this wasn't a _charge in with the biggest weapon you can find and sort out the details later_ kind of situation. Waiting for Zevran to get comfortable in the awkward seat, Hawke laced his fingers together and leaned forward slightly, smiling.

"You obviously have something in mind, coming here. A rather significant risk to your cover."

Finally positioning his legs in a manner that looked at least halfway comfortable (it had taken Hawke months to get used to these blighted chairs), Zevran chuckled warmly. That chuckle, coupled with those sparkling golden eyes would have been more than enough to charm Hawke into bed pre-Fenris, and he privately admitted a bit of a tingle even now. Not even close to the tingle he got from something as dreadfully lovey-dovey as the smell of Fenris' hair on his pillow, but it wasn't as though being utterly swept off his feet had gelded him too.

But again, no matter how handsome this Antivan was, Hawke would have already fed him his own kidneys if Fenris had suffered more than a bump on the head. That lingering kernel of rage was a very effective leash on his usually active imagination.

"Just so," Zevran replied. "And in the interest of my speedy return to cover, I will be more blunt than such proposals usually deserve. I have already killed the Guildmaster of this particular cell; if these Crows are killed, there will be no direct reprisal. If they are not killed to the last man, they will come after you. They are too proud and too stupid to do otherwise."

"Certainly sounds like the Crows," Varric muttered, then shrugged in vague apology. "No offence meant, of course."

"And none taken, I assure you." It was smooth, charismatic, and Hawke honestly couldn't tell whether or not it was sincere. This Zevran was very, very good. "As to my specific reason for darkening your doorstep, well, I suppose you could call it courtesy with a healthy dose of practicality. Others will come after me, regardless, unless I come to them, but _these_ Crows will be much easier to deal with if you and I were to work together. From all I have heard, I believe we would... compliment each other in a great many ways."

Sparing a quick glance at Varric, Hawke considered his options. If the rumour mill could be believed (and Varric always got the very best rumours), there could be more than two-dozen Crows in Kirkwall, mostly young blades but at least one well-seasoned assassin among them, possibly more. That was a dangerously high number to risk handling on his own, should the threat actively expand to encompass his family as well. He certainly didn't trust Zevran, but if their goals were compatible, such a partnership wouldn't be the most horrible idea he'd heard that day.

"That could work," he said carefully, and did not wince at Fenris' strangled noise of disapproval. He'd expected nothing less, after all.

He was actually a tiny bit surprised when he didn't get a smack on the back of the head.


	2. Chapter 2

They all left Varric's suite separately, at staggered times and in different directions to better avoid the eyes no doubt lurking around the tavern. Hawke was home and puttering around behind draw curtains for more than two hours before Fenris finally arrived, but it appeared that some time apart (and more importantly, some time away from Zevran and his oozing sensuality) hadn't managed to banish the air of broodiness.

That was crystal clear from the instant Fenris slipped in the front door, glowering hard enough to strip paint off a ship's hull, and entirely ignoring the swarthy assassin seated at their small table, sharpening daggers. For a brief moment, Hawke considered just going about his business as if nothing was amiss until the dam broke on its own… but no. With the Crows looming dark and malevolently over their heads, it was hardly the time to indulge in an argument called up by Fenris' ridiculously thin-skinned jealousy.

Finishing the edge of his dagger with one final _shick_, Hawke set the blade and whetstone aside and stood. When he came around the table, skirting close to his still silent lover, Fenris bristled but didn't react otherwise, unbuckling his greatsword with practiced motions.

"Not to rush a very good thing," Hawke said, keeping his tone playful despite the thunderhead brewing so nearby. "But if you don't mind, I'm going to skip a few steps in this to-do, all right?"

In a test of strength, Hawke knew he'd always lose quite promptly; unless he resorted to jabbing pressure points and other dirty manoeuvres, he had no hope of physically overpowering Fenris. That wasn't his intent, regardless, but his plans did require a more compliant partner than he was faced with currently.

Before Fenris could do more than glance at him suspiciously, Hawke darted forward, crowding him close to the wall with a firm push and very quick movements. As expected, Fenris snarled wordlessly, obviously displeased if the sudden blaze of lyrium was any indication, and tried to catch hold. The trick was to simply not be wherever gauntleted hands were grabbing, and it was wickedly satisfying to let his own fingers dance over Fenris' body while he melted out of every attempt to grasp.

When it came to Fenris' reaction to touch, there was a fine line between teasing roughhousing and unwelcome aggressiveness. Luckily, Hawke had made certain to become very familiar with precisely where that line lay.

"Hawke—" Fenris was baring his teeth, alternating between trying to seize his tormentor and swatting him away, but the heat in his expression wasn't entirely annoyance. "Callum, _damn _you—"

Reaching down, Hawke rubbed briefly over a leather-clad crotch, earning a hiss and a full-body twitch for his efforts. "Hm, lovely… What say I meet you in the bedroom?"

He knew enough to say _bedroom _only when he'd already scampered halfway towards it, gone like so much smoke. He heard Fenris cursing, mostly in Arcanum, but didn't spare even an instant to turn and wink, racing into the bedroom and tearing his shirt over his head. He could have hidden, then snuck out in ambush when Fenris made his own appearance, but that was a game for another day.

Hawke could hear quickly approaching footsteps, graceful and determined, and kicked off his trousers and smalls just in time to toss the crumpled fabric right into Fenris' face as the elf stormed into the room. Naked as his first name-day, Hawke flipped the quilts down to the bottom of the bed, then had to scramble over the mattress when Fenris lunged for him.

"Hold it," he cried, barely escaping without his ankle being nabbed, and laughed brightly in the face of certain doom (or certain possessive fucking, which sounded so much better). "Before you ravage me in a fit of pique, just tell me one thing!"

Tossing his gauntlets and breastplate aside as he stalked around the bed, so utterly predatory that Hawke had to swallow a rather embarrassing whimper, Fenris paused, poised and waiting. "What?"

Very slowly, still tensed to bolt if necessary, Hawke eased one knee back onto the mattress. He was half-kneeling up by the pillows, while Fenris seethed down by the foot of the bed, but he wasn't under any illusion that his position was secure yet. "Just tell me, do you trust me?"

The mood of the room took a definite turn, and Hawke watched carefully as the furious lust drained from his lover, overtaken by a guarded kind of confusion. "Of course I do. What are you—"

Holding up a quieting hand before the questions could begin in earnest, Hawke moved farther onto the bed, possibly making his muscles flex a bit more fluidly than strictly necessary. "Harmless flirting with the handsome Antivan aside—" The grimace of irritation at the very mention of Zevran and his charming wit was swiftly buried, but Hawke caught it anyway. "You do trust that I know what I'm doing, don't you? This is not my first dance with the Crows."

The pause that followed was just long enough to be mildly insulting, but Hawke tried not to take it personally. There were few things Fenris hated more than losing his grasp on the certainty of a situation, and this business with the Crows had yanked control right out of his hands. At least the Antivans weren't mages.

Finally, Fenris exhaled a long, weary sounding sigh. "Fine. I… I still don't like this, but I will try to have more faith."

Though the appeasement rumbled out as if it was being pulled over Fenris' tongue like a thorny vine, it was good enough. Settling back against the pillows, Hawke offered a blatantly besotted smile. "I do adore you, you crabby, stubborn bastard. Now that that's sorted, do I have to talk about Zev again to get you to come fuck me?"

It was possible he didn't _have_ to do so, but it did earn him a ferocious growl and the sight of a rapidly stripping elf. He made absolutely no attempt to get away this time, not when a naked Fenris swept up from the foot of the bed to pin him soundly to the mattress. Arching up as much as possible against the pressure of a hot, thick cock hardening against his own, Hawke met a hooded glare with a pleased smirk.

"Hm, just like that," he murmured, groaning when fingers bit into his biceps, dragging down his arms to grab his wrists in an iron hold, as their hips ground together in a firm, unrelenting rhythm. "Maker, Fenris—"

A bruising kiss swallowed whatever gibberish he was about to say, stealing his breath as Fenris' grip slid up to twine through his fingers, pressing their clasped hands into the pillows behind Hawke's head. Spreading his thighs wider, Hawke bucked up against the friction and hooked his legs around Fenris' back, seeking _more_.

It wasn't exactly what he'd expected, but rocking together like this always sent lightning skittering through his nerves, jolting at every slick slide of their tongues and sparking like mad as Fenris thrust against his cock. This was more gradual than explosive, at least for the moment, and Hawke found himself slipping into the steady, building pleasure of it.

He inhaled a great lungful of breath when Fenris pulled back, tilting his head to encourage the sharp nips and wet, sucking kisses now trailing along his jaw. One particularly sensitive spot below his ear received special treatment, lingering bites making him whine and thrash, and he knew in his heart of hearts that he was being marked.

The ache of suction and teeth against his skin was drawing up a deliberate, vivid bruise— he could feel his blood pounding, thudding echoes from his neck to his cock. He bucked again, gasping out some broken mix of begging and prayers, and only had an instant to register a bright flare of blue light before blunt teeth sunk hard into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Maker, it _hurt_, and Hawke howled at the rush of bliss that washed over him, enough to make him burn with the aching promise of climax, just beyond his reach.

"_Fuck_—" He wasn't entirely certain Fenris hadn't broken the skin, but Andraste's grace, he didn't care. There was a tongue laving roughly at the second mark, the one that was nearly a wound, then suddenly hips that had been rolling against his with exquisite pressure stopped, entirely torturously.

"Hush," Fenris ordered, peering down all flushed and wanting under the tousled mess of his hair. His lips were deliciously swollen, his eyes lingering on Hawke's neck with all the weight of a caress. "Do not move your hands."

Panting, gathering his wits now that he was scrambling a little farther away from impending orgasm, Hawke smiled. "Yes, ser."

He got a kiss for his troubles, deep and soft compared to a moment before, and the scrape of Fenris' callused palms running down his arms towards his chest. Leaning back, Fenris stroked his hands slowly over Hawke's bare, smooth skin, the usual wiry pelt of blond hair having been shaved for the sake of his disguise. His legs and arms had been spared a similar treatment, the hair there naturally darker and aided by the skin tint.

"Very thorough," Fenris rumbled quietly, taking a moment to pinch Hawke's nipples until they pebbled tightly. "You're darker than I am, everywhere. Even here—" Lifting his hips out of the tight cradle of pelvis and gripping legs Hawke had trapped him in, Fenris reached down and wrapped one hand around Hawke's erection, making him gasp.

It hadn't been a question, but when that hand simply stayed in place, making no move to start stroking, Hawke gritted out a somewhat cheeky excuse, fisting his hands in his pillow. "Professionalism, love. How would it look if I had to explain a huge white cock in the middle of all this lovely caramel skin?"

Fenris' eyes narrowed dangerously, and his thumb began rubbing teasing circles over the tip of the cock in question, smearing pre-come. "You foresaw some situation in which you'd be forced to explain that, did you?"

Shifting, fighting for friction, Hawke stretched up enough to kiss Fenris on the chin, then licked one of the shimmering swoops of lyrium. "Always prepared for any eventuality. It's why I'm first-class."

Fenris didn't budge, didn't crack, but he did squeeze his fist a bit tighter, leisurely sliding Hawke's foreskin farther down his shaft, then back up again. It was maddeningly good, and Hawke was catching on to the intricacies of this particular game. Now he had to decide how best to play.

Tilting his head, Fenris regarded him coolly. "Hm. I'm not sure _huge _is a proper description, either."

"Oh, ouch." Not about to take such insults to his manhood lying down (in a figurative sense, of course), Hawke darted both hands out, grabbing hold of his lover's perfectly toned arse before giving it a quick slap. Fenris hissed, hips snapping, and Hawke risked a devious chuckle. "Big enough to make you mewl and writhe on it, my darling."

Which was how he ended up being straddled and ridden like a wayward horse— nothing to complain about, all things considered.

Even after all this time, Fenris' arse was forever a vicelike paradise, almost tight enough to be uncomfortable. Diligent application of slick and fingers helped immensely, though Fenris carried a deep-seated tension that rarely bled out entirely. The feel of his cock inching up into that hot channel was enough to make Hawke's eyes roll back into his head.

Still poised above him, Fenris let out a soft, broken groan, rocking slowly as his body stretched and Hawke slid in another bit more. That sound was nearly enough to send Hawke thrusting, trying to claim _more_, and Fenris knew it too, if the smug curl of his mouth was any indication.

"Come on," Hawke said instead, stroking his hands along Fenris' damp, straining flanks. He considered teasing around the enticing erection bobbing between them, but sometimes pushing back against these occasional power plays was too tempting. With no hesitation, Hawke reached out and cupped Fenris' heavy, sensitive balls, stretching two fingers back to massage the taut ring of their joining.

Fenris grunted, his mouth going slack at the added stimulation, and he closed the final gap of distance by grinding madly down against the touch. Now with one hand trapped and his cock buried so beautifully deep, Hawke flexed his fingers as much as he was able, canting his hips up at the same time. Then, for the sake of politeness, he bore the stream of breathless curses flung in his direction.

"Hm? Sorry, didn't quite catch that—" Grinning, Hawke dug his heels into the mattress for better leverage and gave a shallow thrust, stomping down his own spiral into pleasure as Fenris clamped hard around him in retaliation. "Can, _Maker_, can you speak up?"

Fenris didn't deign to respond, except to brace his hands more firmly on Hawke's chest and start fucking himself with quick lifts and hard drops, making absolutely no attempt to ease into anything. All thoughts of anything but the elf writhing and groaning above him fluttered out of Hawke's head like so many addled butterflies— there was nothing but Fenris, the pleasure curling up through him like fire, and the slap of skin on skin.

Some indeterminate amount of time later— long enough that Hawke was drenched in much more sweat than the heat of the day could explain— Fenris leaned forward, eyes flashing and hands creeping upward, and Hawke felt another bolt of pure _want_sizzle from his neck to his cock. Fenris was pressing on the larger bruise he'd caused, and the sharp pain brought everything into brilliant focus.

Hawke rolled over onto his knees without a second thought, hooking tightly muscled legs in the crooks of his elbows and pressing Fenris into the mattress. There were no immediate objections to the change in position, but that may have had something to do with the way Fenris was gasping for breath with every fierce pump of Hawke's hips.

It ended soon after, with Fenris clutching at Hawke's shoulder with one hand and fisting his own hardness with the other until he came, spurting and arching up, but perhaps most importantly, _clenching_. Hawke couldn't tear his eyes away from the utterly gorgeous sight of Fenris giving in to ecstasy— on Hawke's cock no less— but then the build-up began to crest, and Hawke was lost in it, unravelling.

He didn't bother trying to slump to the side as his climax faded, taking all his bones with it. Collapsing on top of Fenris seemed a much better option, even if the elf was all lanky angles and surly growling. It also had the added benefit of allowing him to stay comfortable and warm for a few moments longer, buried in his lover's sweet bottom.

Fenris, for his part, only put up token resistance to being ensconced in his new sticky, fleshy blanket. "Damn it, Callum," he croaked, squirming under Hawke's weight, but he didn't shove him off as Hawke knew he could. Long, elegant fingers carded through Hawke's sopping hair, tugging gently at his nape, but that was all.

Nuzzling his face into the crook of Fenris' neck and listening to both their heartbeats slow, Hawke didn't have the energy to hide his contented grin. Maker, if this was what flirting through a chaperoned meeting produced, he couldn't wait for the aftermath of his upcoming hunt with Zevran, possibly just the two of them.

It seemed there was some fun to be had in this Antivan debacle after all.

* * *

><p>"How very subtle," Zevran drawled the next evening, motioning to the dark red marks that marred Hawke's throat. Holed up in one of the smaller warehouses in the Kirkwall dockyard, they were quietly working out the preliminaries of their plan of attack.<p>

Making no attempt to stifle his crooked grin, Hawke shrugged. "It was this or a tattoo across my forehead. Your fault, Zev."

"Hm, and once again I shoulder the blame." Leaning back against a stack of crates, Zevran stretched his arms languorously before tucking both hands behind his head. "It is a heavy burden, to be so irresistible. You may tell your Fenris, if you'd like, that it is all in good fun. I am in fact spoken for, in a rather permanent fashion."

There was a slight softening to Zevran's expression, a smirk giving way to a real smile for just a moment, and Hawke felt his own cheeks grow a little warm with a strange kind of understanding. Of course Zevran missed nothing, and the twinkle that suddenly lit in his eye was all the warning Hawke received before fingers darted out to caress his jaw, buttery leather gloves dragging over smooth, tinted skin.

"If I was not, my dear Hawke… Maker's breath, the fun we would have." This Antivan was _very good_. Letting his mouth curl into a slow, inviting smirk, Hawke took gentle hold of the hand lingering on his face and pressed a kiss against the knuckles.

"You have no idea," he murmured, then winked and leaned back, releasing his fellow assassin with a flourish. "Alas, we poor, handsome scoundrels have been collared and leashed—"

Chuckling, Zevran touched his own throat with a playfully wistful expression. "Literally, on special occasions."

"Hm, indeed." It took a particular mood, but Fenris had slowly warmed to the idea of binding… binding Hawke, especially, which as far as preferences were concerned, was no strain. Being tied up and driven utterly delirious with pleasure was a fine night in, in Hawke's opinion. "It would be a blighted tragedy, if it weren't so good. I think I've gone domestic, Maker save me."

"Ah, when we have dealt with our current dilemma, my friend, I will rejoice in the domestic. It has been far too long since I have seen my Warden, and there is nothing that says a dutiful lover cannot also kill for coin… and occasionally for fun." Zevran pointed to the map of the coast they had spread out across a crate, stretching to tap a secluded inlet about a league outside the city. "On that note, we will find our quarry roosting here. To involve as few as possible in our excursion seems the wisest course— fewer tongues to wag afterward. Perhaps I am biased from my falling out with the Guild, but I'm not terribly fond of the _kill all witnesses_ approach."

"I couldn't agree more; it's a lazy practice to rely on. If you're skilled enough, there are no witnesses." Glancing at the map, Hawke tried to recall the particulars of that area. Blast, but the entire Wounded Coast always felt like a maze of identical hills and scrubby trees. "Varric's information puts our friends at thirty-two strong. How many would you think are of quality?"

"I know there are two full assassins among them. Add to that a half-dozen or so young things out to prove their mettle, and the rest will be hired blades, recruited locally." With a slight curl of his lip, Zevran's expression shifted into something decidedly feral. "These few are all that is left of this cell. Once they are dead, the troubles should cease until another Master takes up the contract… if another even wishes to do so, of course."

Hawke nodded slowly, more consideration than agreement. "And you think by the time you draw another Master's ire, they'll have forgotten all about little old me?"

"That is very likely, yes. Between one cell and the next, there is limited communication. Any damning details of your involvement will perish here as well."

That sounded good, and Hawke was about to say so, but then Zevran continued almost tentatively. "Another thought, my friend. The campsite along the coast will be a challenge to eliminate effectively with only the two of us, even under cover of darkness. Many bodies, many avenues of escape should one or more wish to flee into the hills, and that is not a chance we can afford to take."

"You have a suggestion," Hawke replied, very aware of the wary tingle in the back of his mind. "I assume employing a company of Varric's mercenaries is not what you have in mind."

"No, not more blades. Messy." A flicker of gold, and Zevran was glancing at him through narrowed eyes. "I have had occasion to fight beside a mage. Such power would be most advantageous in our current undertaking, yes?"

This Antivan was likable and incredibly charming, but that didn't mean Hawke trusted him. It also didn't mean he would hesitate for an instant before sliding a blade between his ribs, if that was what it took to keep Bethany safe.

Instead of inquiring, Hawke merely waited, staring at Zevran with an utterly bland expression. After a moment, the elf shrugged.

"I know of your sister." Of bloody course he did. "Her help would be invaluable—"

"Absolutely not." Zevran didn't flinch, didn't blink at the deadly tone, but his reaction didn't matter. Hawke hadn't spent all these years apart from his family, _years _of gruesome work and bribes and protecting them while he lurked in the lonely, Maker-forsaken shadows, to have it all tossed in the midden heap for this Antivan.

"As you wish." Bowing his head shallowly, Zevran pursed his lips. "But we need a mage. There are others in Kirkwall— you are becoming rather notorious for your growing apostate population, after all. I simply thought employing a spellcaster we could trust would be the cleanest solution."

Hiring an apostate off the streets would be a simple thing— Varric had enough contacts to make it happen, and those outside the Gallows were usually eager to earn what coin they could— but also risky. Desperate, fugitive mages could hardly be trusted to keep their mouths shut if Crows came sniffing around later, and the backbone of this entire plan hinged on _no gabby witnesses_.

The idea of hiring then slaughtering a mage wasn't entirely palatable; that kind of crass butchery was one of the reasons Hawke worked alone. He might kill for a living, but renting disposable help just seemed rude.

Then, Hawke was struck with a bolt of inspiration. A bolt of scruffy, more-trustworthy-than-a-stranger inspiration.

* * *

><p>Bethany, Maker bless her, knew better than to bat an eyelash when Bennett the mercenary came ambling into the Darktown clinic.<p>

Volunteering as a healer for the wretched and unwashed was pastime that had caused a bit of tension in the family when Hawke had first learned of it, but most of his darling, infuriating sister's time was spent applying salves and changing dressings. She swore up and down that she was cautious to hide her magic whenever she had to use it, even with another apostate glowing and knitting bones a few cots away, and blast it all, Hawke had always been a sucker for those big brown eyes.

It was dangerous and reckless, but it put a bright smile on Bethany's face that had been dimmed since Lothering, and straightened her spine with a kind of pride in herself that she'd never had before. That was worth it. Varric pulling a few strings to have eyes on the clinic in case of templar patrols made it slightly easier to swallow, too.

Hawke stepped carefully around a Coterie barker who was exiting the clinic's wide doors; the woman looked in much better shape than one might expect, given the wide stain of blood darkening the collar and shoulder of her jerkin. She was rubbing absently at her throat, the skin of which looked rather pink and fresh, and she shot Hawke a mildly spooked glance as she skittered off into the Undercity. Seemed like a normal day, from all Bethany had told him.

Speaking of his sister, she was kneeling beside a cot when he entered, chatting to a filthy little boy who probably wasn't more than six years old, but who had a pristinely clean bandage wrapped around the stump where his left forearm should have started. Bollocks and blight, mangled children did not make an especially classy backdrop when asking for a favour, and the sight did nothing for Hawke's mood.

Lurking by the doors, Hawke re-evaluated his strategy and adjusted the cloth that covered his mouth and nose. He despised wearing a helm, but his usual hood wouldn't exactly fit with Bennett's character. He had settled on a light leather cap and a ratty green scarf, which offered a bit of concealment while not being terribly out of place, especially in the poorer sections of the city, where chokedamp was a constant threat.

The delay earned him a few wary looks from patients, which was not attention he needed, but it also gave Bethany a chance to gift the young boy with a warm smile and a hair ruffle before glancing up and catching Hawke's eye. Acting suspicious had some benefits, since it wasn't entirely outside the realm of imagining that the pretty little assistant healer would cautiously approach the loitering, swarthy man.

"Can I help you, serah?" she asked, still well outside grabbing distance. Years of wandering from village to town, avoiding templars and hiding her true nature, had made a decent actress out of Bethany Hawke (or Bethany Amell, as Kirkwall knew her), and though she knew it was him, she didn't show it.

"I'm here to see the healer," he rumbled back, speaking through the scarf. The diction was rougher, but in terms of pitch, he was doing a fair impression of Fenris if he was perfectly honest about it. "Messere Tethras sent me."

That made Bethany frown, just a twitch of her lips, but by this point Anders himself had noticed the exchange, and stood from whatever glowy thing he was doing to some old man's foot. The mage approached, eyeing him guardedly.

"What's all this?" Bedecked in his feathered pauldrons and leaning on his intricately carved staff, Anders looked every inch the unashamed rebel apostate. Apparently, Malcolm Hawke's cardinal rules of _not getting caught by the bloody templars _were not standard procedure for all free mages.

"Messere Tethras sent me," Hawke said again, reaching in to a belt pouch to retrieve the enamelled brass coin that marked him as an agent of Varric's house. "I'm meant to speak with you, serah. Urgently and privately."

When Anders' attention flickered from the token to Bethany's face, Hawke's dear sister sighed a bit too deeply and waved her hand. "I know him, Anders. It's fine."

_If it's not fine, I'll set his hair on fire and boil his innards _went unsaid, but not unheard, at least for Hawke.

Still so obviously cautious, Anders motioned for Hawke to follow him back into the clinic, while Bethany strode off to keep healing the miserable sods filling up cots. Hawke made a point of giving his sister's backside a long, appraising gander as she swayed away in that way of hers, as a man like Bennett would have done, then weathered Anders' pointed glare with a shrug, falling in step beside him.

"Lovely lass, serah." Grinning a bit, Hawke decided this was a fantastic opportunity to tweak this _too old, too crazy _mage's intentions with his sweet sister. "Didn't realise Bethy found herself a beau. Half the men in Kirkwall will be weeping in their pints."

Following Anders around a rickety looking table and a pile of crates, Hawke lowered his voice into the universal whisper of manly secrets. "Never had a taste, myself, but some of the rumours in Lowtown… Mmm, let's just say the Maker wasn't lying when he blessed her with those ripe lips, perfect for sucking—"

"Not another word," Anders snapped, rounding on him with a definite glow alighting around his hands. "You'll keep a civil tongue in your head while speaking about that woman, or so help me, I will send you back to Varric Tethras in a thimble."

Holding up both hands in surrender, Hawke took a quick step back. The air was crackling in a way he recognised as Trouble Brewing, making all the hairs on his body rise to attention. How very interesting.

"Apologies, messere," he said quickly, then tugged the scarf down off his face and flashed a wiry grin, dropping the false voice entirely. "Just having a bit of fun, old boy. Snuff those sparkles, if you please. A thimble sounds like a terribly uncomfortable method of travel."

"_Hawke_?" Being so painfully dim couldn't be a mage trait, could it? Bethany hadn't shouted his name when she'd recognised him, for the Maker's sake. She understood what _in disguise _meant without being told. "I didn't… what? Why are you… brown?"

He needed Anders' help, and willing help was so much easier to get when you didn't smack the person around beforehand for being _fucking thick_. Narrowing his eyes fractionally, Hawke looked down at his own hand, shifting from palm up to down and back again.

"Andraste's lacy knickers, would you look at that." Glancing back up at Anders, Hawke raised one dark brow. "It's almost as though I'm in disguise, and would rather not have my name squawked out in public. Could we keep our voices down, perhaps? At least play at being stealthy?"

"Disguise?" The glare returned, but this time it was not about lecherous ogling. "For the Maker's sake, what trouble are you bringing to my door? The protection Varric offers is worth occasionally healing his men, but _you_—"

"Hold that thought… though I could gladly listen to you expounding on my many virtues for _days_." Sidling closer, Hawke plastered on his most disarming, charming look and watched with some fascination as Anders' fidgeted, his cheeks blooming faintly pink. He'd had an inkling that he'd turned the healer's head years ago, but the thought hadn't been more than a passing fancy at the time.

Now, if he happened to discover that the shabby, renegade mage was purposefully leading his sister on, he'd geld him. That, however, was a concern for later.

"Anders," he said warmly, tilting his head in a way he'd been told (on good authority) was particularly endearing. It even worked on Fenris. "I've got a small job on offer, if you're interested— nothing sordid, I swear. It pays good gold, and I'll owe you a favour."

It spoke well of Anders' astuteness that he didn't answer right away, except to lean back, sceptical. It seemed the man had some sense, after all.

Hawke simply had to figure out the best way to make him lose it for a short while.

* * *

><p>When Hawke finally snuck back into the tenement, it was late enough that Fenris was already in bed, though the flickering light of a lamp from beyond the bedroom door meant he wasn't asleep. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, Hawke slipped like a shade through the dark of their main room, confident enough in his own abilities not to fear taking a greatsword to the skull for skulking around unannounced.<p>

Peeking into their bedroom from the shadows, Hawke found Fenris curled up under the quilts, bare back pressed against the headboard and a book open across his blanket-covered thighs. He was squinting a little at the text, his lips moving slowly with the words as he never allowed himself to do whenever anyone was watching, and if it weren't for the weariness in his bones and the yearning to soak up Fenris' heat, Hawke would have been content to observe him silently for an age. Teaching Fenris to read had proven a harrowing experience, and was still intensely frustrating for both of them on occasion, but so incredibly satisfying as well.

Fenris deserved every ounce of freedom he desired, and Hawke would have torn down the Viscount's Keep one stone at a time if it meant helping his lover achieve another sliver of independence. Compared to that, what were a few reading lessons, even the ones that ended in stony silence or barbed words?

Family was worth any sacrifice, he'd been taught long ago.

"Knock, knock," he murmured, shifting into the light as he stepped through the doorway. Other than a sharply indrawn breath and a mild scowl, Fenris didn't startle too badly.

"I should start sewing bells to your clothes." Snapping the book shut, he set it on the nightstand before Hawke could get a good look. The cover was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it off-hand.

Shucking his blighted cap and scarf, then ruffling his hair in a vain attempt to look less sweaty and ragged, Hawke sat heavily on the edge of the bed, flopping back so that his head was cradled in Fenris' lap. He was still in the cheap, thick leather jerkin and trousers of his Bennett ensemble, and his two largest daggers were digging into his back as he squished them into the mattress, but for a moment, none of that mattered.

"Good evening, love." Blinking up into that stunningly handsome face, Hawke didn't have to try very hard to summon a tired smile. "Fancy meeting you here."

It was a good day; instead of shoving him off, or even shooting him a dark look, Fenris smiled back (a little crooked, and entirely captivating), and began carding his fingers slowly through Hawke's hair. Letting his eyes flutter closed, Hawke groaned quietly as the utterly divine sensation skittered across his scalp and down his spine.

"If you could just keep doing that—" Blunt nails scraped lightly behind his ear, and Hawke let out a long, shuddering breath. "Uh… Mmm, yes. Just keep doing that, forever, and I'll do anything you like. Completely at your mercy, your beck and call."

"Empty promises," Fenris said, and the fondness lurking in his voice sent an answering curl of affection wriggling around in Hawke's chest. "You said the same thing the last time I massaged your neck. And something very similar the last time I cooked lamb stew."

"I also said it the last time you sucked my cock. Doesn't make it less true." Eyes still closed, Hawke blindly followed the warm breath that had descended over him, craning up to claim a languorous kiss. Fenris tasted faintly of wine, but mostly just of himself, like some heady foreign spice.

Chasing that taste, chasing _more_, Hawke propped himself up on his elbows, shivering when one of Fenris' warm, callused hands slid around to cup the back of his head, guiding and holding. It was nearly enough, making his cock twitch in his pants, but by the holy Andraste's grace, he was so tired.

From the middle of the night before, until he'd nestled his head in Fenris' lap, he'd been all over the thrice-damned, Maker forsaken city; his bones felt like twisted hunks of iron slag, weighing him down, and his muscles were like water. He'd slithered through filthy sewers and clamoured up buildings, trudged the stairs from the docks to Hightown and back, and even sweet-talked a rather grumpy mage into offering his services as a spellslinger. Beyond that, he'd done it all with the appropriate amount of panache.

The day had been long, but he hadn't had a decent moment of rest since these problems with the Crows had started, and it was catching up with him. He wondered hazily exactly how put out Fenris would be if he fell asleep in the middle of sex. Probably best not to risk it, truth be told.

"Shit," he hissed quietly, pulling back and forcing his eyes to open. It was more exhaustion than passion that made them heavy, unwilling to focus. Hovering above him, Fenris took a deep breath and pressed a kiss against his brow.

"You should sleep." That was supposed to be his line, but Hawke was in no fit state to complain about it. "Sit up, and I'll help with your clothes."

Doing as bidden, Hawke hauled himself into a swaying kind of seated position, yanking at the buckle of his baldric and shrugging out of the harness with just a bit of assistance. When Fenris swatted _his_hands away from the fasteners of his jerkin, Hawke couldn't stifle his giggles, flexing his unusually clumsy fingers before locking his elbows and bracing himself against the mattress to keep upright.

The look of Fenris, naked and perfect and crouched between his legs, was as torturous as it was sinfully beautiful, and Hawke tried to will himself just enough gumption for one round of lazy, sloppy sex… but it wasn't happening. Fenris wasn't even putting on a show, simply tugging Hawke free of his boots and unlacing his trousers with easy, practiced motions.

Being taken care of wasn't something Hawke needed often, and it was something he submitted to even less frequently, but at that moment, in that room with that elf, it was just the thing. Just glorious.

He lifted his hips when Fenris started to pull his trousers and smalls down, kicking to help once all the leather, wool, and linen pooled around his knees. Nude, he crawled back awkwardly, wriggling under the quilts with tiny whimpering sounds he would deny vehemently come morning. Shortly thereafter, once the rustling and clanking of Fenris moving his gear aside faded, the mattress sunk and a hot, nubile body slipped into bed beside him.

Hawke fought the lure of sleep for just another moment, purring when Fenris' hand settled back on his head, stroking his hair. The lantern was blown out, plunging the room into the same blessed darkness Hawke knew waited behind his eyelids, but there were still words scrabbling inside his head, unwilling to go unsaid.

Shifting closer, Hawke pressed his lips to Fenris' chest, nuzzling against the intricate swirls of lyrium that traced the dips and curves of his trim muscles. Every time he was permitted to touch the markings without a flinch following, Hawke felt his pulse skip.

"I love you." It wasn't a sentiment he said so plainly very often, but this business of being hunted was encouraging him to say it more. Possibly every morning he woke with Fenris still in his bed and in his life. The fingers in his hair tugged gently at his nape, which was answer enough. "Hmm…Thank you for putting up with me."

"Go to sleep," Fenris said quietly, and Hawke felt a kiss being pressed to the crown of his head. It wouldn't be a wholly restful night, not until the chance of being murdered in their bed fell back to normal levels of risk, but even with the threat of Crows lurking in every shadow, snoring next to Fenris was the safest he could feel.

Tomorrow, they'd work out the plan to deal with these bloody Antivans.

* * *

><p>"Blighted <em>flames<em>." Poking gingerly at the shallow-but-stinging slice that marred his cheek (_too close_ to his eye, and _now_was not the time to get careless, blast it), Hawke cursed again, spitting into the dirt of the alley floor. There was a faint tingling around the edges of the wound, and he could see familiar, slick black poison coating the edge of the dagger that had snuck through his defences just enough to graze. That blade was now lying amongst the debris that littered the alley, along with its owner, but the poison looked and smelled like a standard deathroot blend, to which Hawke had built some significant resistance over the years. It would itch, maybe make him a bit nauseated, but nothing worse.

"That was bracing, wasn't it?" Crouching over one of the bodies, Zevran continued riffling through the dead man's pouches and pockets. "You are as quick with those blades as the rumours say, my friend. How is your face?"

"You tell me." Tilting his head, Hawke waited for Zevran to glance up before continuing. "Still dashingly handsome? Or shall I go drown myself in the harbour?"

Sparing a moment to consider, Zevran's eyes traced the gash with light-hearted if earnest care. "Rakish," he decided eventually, turning back to cut a clinking purse from one of the dead mercenaries. "I don't imagine it will scar much, if at all. You'll live, my dear Hawke… and perhaps your Fenris can kiss it better, hm? Applied liberally, I've found it can be a very effective healing method."

"I do love a silver lining." Glancing around at the carnage, Hawke shook his head in mild exasperation. "This was idiotic. Six men, with only one Crow amongst them? Why would they strike with such a small group in the middle of Lowtown?"

"Arrogance, ambition, and youth." Rising from his crouch with all the grace of a cat, Zevran tossed one of the pouches to Hawke. It felt heavy, and a glance inside found enough silver for a very entertaining evening at the Blooming Rose, and a smooth, polished opal, bigger than a robin's egg. "The boy sought to make his name, no doubt. To kill me on his own, and claim the glory among his brothers. These mercenaries were paid well to follow him on this side job, with stolen coin and baubles."

Offering a grin of thanks, Hawke tucked the spoils of war into his belt. "Ah, and he didn't realise who I was. Maker's balls, at least someone in this city was fooled by this blighted disguise."

Grinning in return, more than a little amused, Zevran brushed his hands together briskly, then motioned for Hawke to precede him towards the alley mouth. They were finished, and a few bodies (already stripped of anything too incriminating or valuable) were hardly out of place in Lowtown. "Indeed. The poor little bird thought I was all alone, ripe for the picking. Something of a shame, I suppose, but stupid Crows are of no use to anyone. The Guild would do well to trim a bit of fat, I think."

They were traipsing through the squatty slums and cramped back alleys of Lowtown's poorest sections, branching out from the alienage. It was a roundabout way to get to the Hanged Man, but simply sauntering up to the front door wasn't exactly the brightest option.

They turned another sharp corner, finding the way blocked by a section of newly collapsed wall, and Hawke didn't hesitate before scaling the rubble, testing the rough edges of the stone for more weakness. Satisfied, he nodded once to Zevran before starting to climb. They'd make better time and stand less of a chance of another ambush if they stuck to the rooftops.

It was just past sunset, when the vivid colours painted across the western sky faded into the city's murky, smoky dusk. The grid of hexes spread out like honeycombs beneath them, the din of people muted by distance, and even busy as he was crouching low on a rooftop and scanning for Crows, Hawke appreciated the beauty of it for a moment.

"I love Kirkwall," he said, once Zevran had clambered up beside him. "It's so much more hectic than Ferelden, even Denerim. I mean, it's still a filthy, miserable shithole most of the time, but Andraste's tits, it's home."

Chuckling quietly, Zevran clapped him on the shoulder. "I understand. I once felt the same about Antiva City, even when she was a foul bitch. Now… now home is something different. Someone different, I suppose." That was an interesting concept. Hawke had long ago abandoned the notion of returning to life in some rat-spit, backwater village, with sewing circles instead of gangs and muddy gardens rather than stinking docks and foundries. The idyllic, pastoral scene did not lend itself well to the life of an assassin.

"Come, my friend." Shaking himself out of his woolgathering before he could consider whether a quiet life with Fenris actually sounded as incredibly boring as he'd feared, Hawke glanced over at Zevran. The elf was still smiling as he pointed in the direction of their objective. "We are nearly late, and I've no doubt your Fenris will come looking if I do not deliver you promptly and unsullied."

"Ah, very true." The cut on his face was still stinging, the poison a minor irritant, but he wouldn't waste time tending to it until they reached the Hanged Man. Peering over the rooftops again, watching for movement or shadow, Hawke rose out of his squat and started off at a quick pace, surefooted and silent.

* * *

><p>Hawke had planned on slipping in one of the Hanged Man's upper windows, until Zevran had inquired shrewdly about the secret entrance into Varric's suite. The secret entrance Hawke hadn't been sure he even knew about.<p>

"After you," he murmured, motioning for Zevran to precede him down the steep, treacherous incline that led to the tiny crawlspace. As he expected, Zevran winked and didn't object, and despite the rather complex locking mechanism, it only took a moment for the elf to shimmy inside. Apparently, it was time to design a new lock.

The crawlspace was barely large enough to fit a grown man, but neither Hawke nor Zevran were burly by any standard definition, and both were particularly flexible besides. Squeezing in just in time to hear Zevran quip about his love for tight, dark holes, Hawke didn't try terribly hard to stifle his laughter. The face that his face was pressed against the bare skin of Zevran's thigh was a detail he would leave out when relaying this story, especially if Fenris was in earshot.

When two ruffled, breathlessly amused assassins stumbled out from behind a bookcase, the reactions around Varric's suite were… varied.

The dwarf himself simply rolled his eyes, turning back to whatever he was writing as he poured over the map spread across his table. Anders, leaning against the wall rather near the door, made a surprised sound and jerked to attention, one hand tight around his staff.

Fenris, who by the looks of things had been in the middle of pacing like a caged wolf, transitioned smoothly from startled to thunderously scowling. Rather than wilt under that familiar glare, Hawke raked one hand through his mussed hair and grinned.

"Sorry we're late." The expression made the tight, sore skin around his cut pull, and he winced, reaching up as if to touch it before thinking better of it. "Ran into some unsavoury folk. Nothing serious."

The sight of the wound caused Fenris' darkly displeased look falter, then crumble into poorly hidden concern. Flopping heavily into one of Varric's chairs while Zevran eyed Anders with some interest, Hawke didn't have long to wait before his lover was at his side, one spiky gauntlet reaching out to tilt his chin carefully to the side.

"Just a scrape, love." Digging through one of his belt pouches, Hawke fished out a small jar of salve, pulling the stopper free without looking away from Fenris' beautiful eyes. "And a touch of poison for good measure, but a little of this, and I'll be fresh as a daisy."

Still lingering by the door, as though ready to bolt at any moment, Anders cleared his throat. "I could heal it, if you'd like. Save some time and prevent a scar."

The idea of magic, even something as benign as healing, made Fenris' jaw tighten. It was almost enough to make Hawke refuse, but that would have been foolish.

"That would be splendid, Anders," he said, reaching out to briefly squeeze Fenris' hip. It didn't earn him a smile, or even the hint of one, but neither did Fenris retreat to the far side of the room as Anders approached. Stepping around, Fenris loomed behind the back of Hawke's chair, resting one rather unexpected hand on Hawke's shoulder.

This was probably the most intimate touching Fenris had ever initiated in front of other people. Hawke was equal parts pleased and concerned.

For his part, Anders seemed determined to ignore Fenris entirely, which was probably for the best. Bending to examine the wound, he caught Hawke's eye for just a moment, asking silent permission. An encouraging nod later, and Anders' hand was awash with pale blue light, moving slowly to push the healing energy into the injured flesh.

Hawke slowed his breathing, enjoying the warm, almost ticklish sensation of skin knitting back together, and especially the soothing heat of the poison being drawn out, taking the infernal itching with it. When it wasn't life or death, with bowels flopping out on boots, healing magic could feel truly wonderful.

After a moment of that bliss, Hawke felt the energy expand, soaking into his muscles and easing aches of which he'd only been partially aware. The stiffness in his right elbow, the knot of tension that had been plaguing the back of his skull…

Then, without warning, the magic faded, leaving Hawke gloriously pliant and relaxed. He blinked owlishly, not entirely sure when he'd closed his eyes, only to find Anders stumbling back with a definite flush darkening his cheeks. Fenris' hand, still gripping Hawke's shoulder, was holding on rather tight.

Thinking back into that hazy, comfortable fog, Hawke vaguely remembered hearing someone moan. It had been a deep, euphoric kind of sound, and very familiar.

Oh, he hadn't meant to do that.

Scrubbing at his fresh, perfectly healed cheek, Hawke shifted in his seat, not quite daring to pat the back of Fenris' hand. "Good as new," he said lightly, ignoring the arched brow Zevran was sending him. "Thank you, Anders."

Blessedly, Varric took that opportunity to shift their attention back to the matters at hand. Tapping the map sharply with one thick finger, he commanded attention with all the ease of your average, charismatic merchant prince. "Could we possibly get to work, here? Having Zev in the open like this is already courting trouble."

"Too true," Zevran agreed. "Let us get down to it, hm?"

Hawke was annoyed, certainly, but also rather flattered that the Crows response to his possible involvement with Zevran was to hire another two dozen mercenaries. If Anders' skills had been an asset before, now the mage's large-scale destructive powers would be a necessity.

Bad odds were part of his job. Usually, it was him alone against any number of guards and defences, but _usually_he took full advantage of all the hidey holes an estate offered, or all the shadows, nooks, and crannies of a back alley. This was an assault, still striking from shadow but taking out an entire camp, and Hawke knew when to admit a lack of expertise in such a scenario.

Fenris, on the other hand, was a warrior. A mercenary by trade, and a particularly talented bringer of death and devastation on a large, bloody scale. Coupled with Varric's tactical genius, Zevran's knowledge of the Crows, and Anders' big zaps and booms, Hawke was content to do as he was told during this operation.

Luckily enough, what he was told amounted to _stab everything that moves, except us_, which were directions Hawke was very comfortable following.

Not so luckily, Hawke was getting slightly fed up with Fenris' jealous, cranky bastard angle. It had been cute at first, certainly it had ended with some fantastic sex on more than one occasion, but by Andraste's flaming arse, it was getting tiresome now. Logically, Hawke knew it was equal parts Fenris' being prickly, and him being exhausted and frustrated, but that didn't help at the moment.

And now there was no time— it wouldn't be at all sporting to send Anders back to his clinic after this rather unusual visit to Varric's suite, what with Crows ostensibly watching every move they made. Considering that the possibility of Hawke's involvement had resulted in a near doubling of enemy numbers, none of them was especially curious to see what the response to a mage on their side would be.

No, best not give the vicious assassins a chance to hire a desperate apostate or six. Maker knew Kirkwall wasn't scant on spellslingers, and Hawke had a strange aversion to being immolated before he was properly old, properly dead, and properly laid out on his funeral pyre with a weeping Fenris holding vigil. They needed to strike now.

And speaking of Fenris, Hawke might not have had the time or the patience for a proper soothing of his lover's tetchy ire, but he _would_take a moment, blast it all.

He and Zevran would be sneaking off shortly, clearing the streets of any obvious eyes lurking around before meeting up with the others just outside the city in a few hours. A brief march up the coast would follow, then some good old-fashioned slaughter sometime near dawn. Any little birds not caught in the initial attack would be simple enough to mop up afterwards, when they returned to the charred ruin Anders would make of their camp.

Sharing a brief but significant glance with Varric and receiving an understanding nod in return, Hawke unfolded himself from the squatty chair and took careful, gentle hold of Fenris' wrist. Before he could be questioned or shaken off, he tugged, offering a small, private smile.

"Trust me," he said softly, and managed to make it sound less like a question than his mild, simmering irritation would have dictated. After a heartbeat or two of hesitation, Fenris allowed himself to be led, ignoring Zevran's amused leer and Anders' frown.

Herding his lover into the relatively private space of Varric's bedroom, Hawke crowded him against the wall, hiding them both from curious eyes. Leaning close, he pressed their foreheads together and laid one hand on the side of Fenris' neck, soaking in the warmth of his skin and the thrum of his pulse.

"What are you doing?" The wary, confused tone was expected, and Hawke hummed in response, shifting his head up to nuzzle Fenris' hairline. "Hawke—"

"Shhh…" Shushing earned him a pissy, throaty noise, and despite everything else, Hawke felt himself grin. "Shh, I said. Just listen, you crabby bastard. When this is over—" Sliding his hand up, Hawke let the pads of his fingers glide feather-light up the taper of Fenris' ear, playing entirely unfairly.

"Hawke," Fenris said again, this time rough and stuttered and _Maker_, Hawke was hard-pressed to remember the three men just on the other side of the wide, open archway that separated their temporary hideaway from the room at large.

"When this is over, we are going home, we are locking the door, and we are not leaving our bed for a week." There was a pause, then a huff of deep, breathless laughter against his throat, and Hawke stepped closer still, sliding one leg between Fenris' thighs until his knee knocked against the wall. Whatever sour tension had been growing around them and between them fizzled out, replaced by another, much more pleasant kind of tension.

Sure, it could be somewhat uncomfortable, but there was always something thrilling about going out on a job half-hard, knowing that incredible sex would be in the cards when he got home.

And then, because it certainly wasn't only assassins who didn't play fair, Fenris reached around and grabbed two handfuls of Hawke's arse, squeezing just hard enough that Hawke could feel the ghost of pinpricks through the seat of his trousers.

Half-hard was possibly an underestimation. If they had just a bit more privacy and a spare quarter-hour…

"Scratch that," Hawke rasped, forcing himself to step back before they risked the wrath of Varric for rutting against his wall. "Two weeks. A bloody month." Fenris was flushed, hair mussed and eyes glowing like coals, and Hawke gnashed his teeth helplessly. "Ah, _fuck_, I might never let you out again. Is that an problem?"

Reaching out, Fenris crooked one finger under Hawke's chin, considering. After a moment, his lips quirked, and the damned _saucy_ look sent lightning skittering down Hawke's spine all the way to his twitching cock. "Hm. Not especially."

* * *

><p>At the sight of them slinking back out into the main room, both still a bit flustered and Hawke grinning like a loon, Zevran sighed deeply. "Ah, all these handsome, passionate men do tease me so. You are so cruel, not inviting me even to watch."<p>

Arms crossed, looking positively sulky, Anders made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "Could I just say? You've all been talking as if I've agreed to this— to taking part in this attack. I told you I'd consider it, and now you've brought me to meet the bloody Crow deserter himself."

It wasn't precisely helpful when Zevran offered a flashy bow, but it was amusing.

"Come now, Anders," Hawke said, carefully schooling his expression into something a little less self-satisfied. Groping Fenris always made him too smug for polite company. "It's worth it for the trip up the coast. Fresh air, a chance to stretch your legs, and free rein to be as destructive as your little magical heart desires with not a single templar for miles."

Apparently not yet sold on the notion, despite Hawke's pitch, Anders narrowed his eyes and kept frowning (though it was perhaps a hint less dour than before). "That's my point. There's important work I could be doing, and compared to that, I honestly don't care one wit for the Antivan Crows or what they're doing in this city."

Feeling his irritation tweak again— Maker, getting Anders out of that blasted clinic without his sister boxing his ears had been hard enough— Hawke favoured the mage with a bland look. "You might start caring when they come for Bethany. Which becomes more and more likely the longer they're skulking around Kirkwall."

That was enough to warrant a flinch, those rather fetching amber eyes shifting away with a touch of embarrassment. "I didn't… Ugh, _bollocks_. Do you know what happened the last time I tangled with Antivan Crows?"

Zevran perked up again, leaning forward with a cheeky smirk. "Oh, please do tell. A _tangle_with the Crows, you say—"

"I had to learn how to cure fleshrot poison while it was eating through the Warden Commander's arm," Anders cut in tartly, and Zevran actually paled ever so slightly, his expression tightening. "I'm not terribly keen to see if I remember the right spells to fix that again."

"Right, enough," Hawke said, shaking his head. "Anders, I know you think I'm asking too much, and you may be right. But if you scamper back down to your clinic now, we fine gentlemen will need to rethink our brilliant plan, and I don't know how much longer those Antivan bastards will wait before they make a particularly nasty move. Whether that means slaughtering me outright, or murdering my family first, I'm fairly certain Bethany would be rather put out. My sister is a darling girl, and she doesn't deserve that." He paused, mostly for dramatic effect, and laced some charm into the tapestry of guilt he'd been weaving. "And like I said, I'll owe you a favour— a hefty one, too. Surely that's worth something, hm?"

Narrowing his eyes, Anders huffed in annoyance. "You're a manipulative little shit, you know that?"

"That's the rumour." Hawke smiled, broad and halfway honest, and Anders huffed again.


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, the little failed ambush seemed to make up the entirety of the Crows in the city, for the moment. It wasn't entirely clear how much of that had to do with the young ringleader's scheming to nab the contract on his own, and how much was a result of rumours placing Zevran in various boltholes in the mountains, but it meant a cleaner sweep than Hawke had anticipated.

Being Varric's very favourite assassin and best friend had some varied fringe benefits— Bianca's invaluable presence on this jaunt up the coast was certainly a perk. As much as Hawke preferred bladework, he certainly had an appreciation for the artistry of a well-timed bolt, and Varric was a master at making his lady work her special kind of magic.

There was also a little curl of warmth in his chest at the thought that Varric would drag his ass out in the middle of the night, to the middle of nowhere, just to help Hawke clear up this mess. In a profession that was necessarily cagey and often distasteful, he knew he was incredibly lucky to work for someone who truly did have his back.

By the time he and Zevran made their way out of the city and rejoined the rest of their motley crew, Hawke was feeling a bit sentimental. Just before they headed out on their hunt, he slunk a bit closer and lightly elbowed Varric in the shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly, turning away from the others' last preparations and double-checks, creating at least the illusion of privacy. "You know, for a shrewd, mouthy little blighter, you're all right."

Even in the dim light the stars cast, peeking out of the inky, overcast sky, Hawke could make out Varric's wiry smile. "Hm. And I suppose you're not half-bad for a degenerate dog-lord, despite the moral apathy and terrible sense of humour."

Reaching out in the dark, Hawke grabbed hold of Varric's large, broad hand, just as the dwarf was reaching for him. "You love my moral apathy, and you know I'm hilarious. Excited for this?"

"Thrilled." Tightening his grip slightly, Varric took a half step closer. "You could work circles around the best these bastards have to offer, but if you do anything stupid, I swear I'll hold the elf responsible for your bar tab. All right?"

"Me, stupid? Perish the thought." It was past time to get going, and this was getting a bit too soppy for them, but Hawke smiled anyway, trusting Varric to see him through the shadows. He always did, after all. "I love you too, you short-arsed miser. Let's go cause some mayhem before I get all weepy."

Nearby, Zevran tutted. "No group hug? How tragic. I'm told I give superb hugs."

"I'm sure they're very thorough," Varric said, chuckling, and then it really was time to get underway.

* * *

><p>The Crows had stationed mercenaries as their first line of sentries, which was easy enough to deal with. Between Hawke and Zevran, the lookouts fell like heavily bleeding dominos, and not one alarm was raised.<p>

In hindsight, it was _too_easy, which was generally not what Hawke had come to expect from his life as a whole.

The first crackle of lightning, sparking and slicing through the night air, certainly garnered some attention, and the fight began in earnest a few moments later. The Crows had a few fires lit, and between those flickering pools of light and the blinding flashes of arcane energy Anders was calling down from the heavens, neither side had the advantage of clear vision. The majority of the mercenaries were easy to fluster, it seemed, shouting and swinging blades erratically at every shifting shadow, but the Crows were another matter entirely.

Hawke managed to take out two younger Antivans in the space of a few moments, one of whom was the lisping lad who'd come to Varric's room for the first contract offer. Eliminating all enemy assassins as quickly as possible was paramount, though taking a mercenary's blade through the gut would likely be just as deadly as a cleanly slit throat.

Hawke ducked low, taking out a sellsword's legs before leaving the man dead and twitching in the sand, then darted off to find more action. Somewhere to his left, he could hear the smooth grind of Bianca's mechanisms and the steady thud of bolts meeting flesh. Fenris was shining like a beacon as he sliced through swathes of mercenaries, and Hawke couldn't help but spare a moment of concern for the bright blue target he was making of himself. Hawke would simply have to keep the assassins busy while his lover made mincemeat of the hired help.

The lightning storm began to weaken, though not before the air was thick with the smell of burnt flesh. Hidden away farther up one of the dunes, Anders had apparently been peppering other spells into the mix while his tempest raged— the next mercenary Hawke sunk his daggers into exploded into a shower of guts and broken bones, knocking back another half-dozen opponents and coating Hawke tip to tail in offal. Cursing, Hawke wiped his eyes clear and kept moving, but by the Maker's sanctified _arsehole_, the mage was going to pay for not warning about that little trick.

"You always were too stupid to live, Nuncio," Hawke heard Zevran call from the shadows, to be answered by a torrent of Antivan vitriol from, Hawke assumed, this charming Nuncio fellow. He would have gone to assist, as he knew this Nuncio was one of the two particularly dangerous assassins Zevran had warned about, but it was at that moment that Hawke realised his broody little lightning bug was nowhere to be seen.

No lyrium-branded ghost was flickering around the dozen or so mercenaries Hawke could see stumbling around in the dark, and he felt his stomach grow icy cold. There was a flash of steel, however, just out of the corner of his eye, and Hawke barely had time to deflect the snake-quick blades that had been lashing out towards his vitals.

Shit. He'd found the other assassin.

This son of a bitch was fast, Hawke would give him that. The Crow was elven, so intricately tattooed from his brow down to his neck that he might have passed for Dalish, and wielding a pair of daggers so swiftly it was nearly dizzying, but Hawke was no slouch either. Giving as good as he got, meeting steel with steel, Hawke couldn't remember the last time he'd been pushed so hard in quick combat.

If it weren't for the worry gnawing in the back of his mind— _Fenris, where is Fenris_— it would have been a very thrilling fight.

Yes, in hindsight, it was all a little too easy. Hawke became utterly certain of that fact a heartbeat after a bright, glowing fist punched its way through his opponent's chest, making the Crow cough up a surprised bubble of blood almost instantly, staring at Hawke with wide, alarmed eyes.

Falling like a broken doll when Fenris retracted his hand, no doubt rending some important innards on the way, the Crow was dead before he hit the sand. He did, however, manage to leave one blade behind, buried up to the hilt in Hawke's gut.

And everything was very, very cold.

* * *

><p>Once, when Callum was a small boy and the twins were barely out of nappies, he was traipsing around the fields behind their cottage— was it when they lived in White River? He couldn't remember— when he fell into an old well.<p>

He'd snuck away while his father was busy making bread, and his mother was mending clothes. Callum was meant to be practicing his letters while the twins napped, but he was convinced there were more exciting things to be found amongst the beetles and the long grass, especially when compared to copying lines.

Other children in the village didn't have to spend their afternoons stuck inside with ink on their fingers.

He'd hoped to find Dalish in the forest, or treasure, or possibly a pond with really big frogs. The old well was much less interesting than any of that— it was overgrown, abandoned, and as he discovered when he hit the bottom, mostly dry.

The fall knocked him out, cracking his head and pushing the air from his lungs, and it was very dark when he came to. He was freezing, his little body screaming with a kind of pain he'd never felt before in all five years of his life, and in the moments just after he struggled back into groggy consciousness, he was actually too afraid to cry.

That last bit didn't last long, and his father found him shortly thereafter, easily following the ear-splitting shrieks. After that, even after his father had filled him up with warm, soothing magic and chased away the throbbing in his head and the sharp, biting pain in his leg, Callum had shivered for days. Cold, alone, and terrified in a dark pit— Callum returned there every time he shut his eyes, until finally the fear faded to a dim memory.

Sometimes, rare times, Hawke found himself waking with a shiver, tendrils of that long-ago conquered fear clinging to the edges of his mind.

He couldn't move. He was aware of his body, of the numbness permeating his muscles, but he couldn't even dredge up the power to open his eyes. He was just aware enough to know his mind was a fog, his thoughts slow and muddled, and it was terrifying in a distant, disconnected way.

He couldn't breathe. He could feel the burning in his throat, in his lungs, the desperate need for air and the building, throbbing pressure in his skull, but those were such minor concerns compared to the agony deeper in his chest…

Something was very wrong in his chest. Nothing had ever hurt quite like it.

Air. Suddenly he was getting _air_, hot and foreign and pushed down his throat like a blessing. A mouth? A mouth, breathing air into him, easing the burn and the panic, but the pain remained. Maker have mercy, the _pain_—

The all-consuming blackness was a welcome respite.

* * *

><p>When Hawke's mind cleared, his first thought was: <em>Andraste's tits, I'm going to be sick.<em>

His stomach was churning uncomfortably, cramping with the need to vomit, but something felt strange. Not _vicious-wrath-of-the-Maker-unleashed-in-his-chest_strange, but not normal either. He could, however, open his eyes.

Everything was blurry, but it was better than the inside of his eyelids. He was lying down on something firm and uncomfortable, though his head was pillowed, and he could taste copper very strongly. Blinking slowly, Hawke ignored the voices chattering like biddies somewhere miles above him, and tried to focus on the fuzzy white blob hovering to his left.

He knew that blob.

"Fenris," he said, or tried to say, but his throat felt like he'd been gargling broken glass and hot nug piss, and it sounded more like a pitiful groan. The blob moved, ducking close and getting slightly clearer, and Hawke grasped at the thread of that gruff, familiar voice. He could almost make out Fenris' face, but the only word he could decipher was his name, murmured between strings of some manner of gibberish that he dearly hoped was Arcanum.

This was getting a bit ridiculous. Blinking harder, Hawke forced himself to claw through the haze muddying up his mind, and the droning buzz in his ears faded into… Anders?

"—move. Do you hear me, Hawke? Do _not_try to move." By the Void, the mage sounded terrible.

"Won't," he rasped; he wasn't entirely certain he _could_move, but if the fancy magical healer wanted him to stay put, he would.

"Callum," Fenris said again, close enough this time that Hawke could feel the word breathed out against his forehead. "You… I thought you were gone from me."

Awkward, slowly spoken Common, heavy with Tevinter-coloured vowels— it usually took ages of fantastic, passionate sex to wear Fenris out enough to speak like that.

He might have joked, if he'd been able— _harder than that to get rid of me, love_— but the quip fell flat even in his mind. Instead, realising that there were familiar fingers intertwined with his, Hawke drummed up enough muscle control to squeeze Fenris' hand.

"You great, swaggering show-off," Varric said from somewhere down by Hawke's feet, sounding almost as hoarse as Hawke. "You just had to pull some shit like this at the last minute. Only you."

It didn't hurt to smile, so Hawke did, peering up into Fenris' wide, liquid eyes as they glimmered in the firelight. It was still dark, still night, and from the smell of fresh death and the sea all around them, Hawke assumed they were still at the Crow's camp. Instead of a fond but quickly shuttered look, Fenris returned his smile by leaning down for an incredibly gentle kiss, right on the lips.

That kind of easy, public affection was… unusual, but certainly not unwelcome. It was almost enough to make it worth nearly dying, but Hawke wasn't about to press his luck by mentioning that.

"Hawke," Anders said after a moment, and fingers prodding softly at his ribs made Hawke grunt and Fenris pull away. "I've enough mana left to heal the rest of the damage, at least enough for you to walk back to Kirkwall, but you'll be very sore. I need you to stay perfectly still."

Fenris' hand didn't move from holding his, even when Anders' magic began spreading out through Hawke's body in the same soothing flood as before. It was like sinking into a hot bath, though the pain it eased this time was only the more immediate, sharper stabbing, while the lingering aches remained. Still, it made everything better, smoothing the rough edges of his consciousness into something approaching bearable.

When Anders was finished, _too soon_Hawke's muscles protested, it took Fenris' arm looped carefully around his shoulders to help Hawke into a sitting position. Even then, the nausea was significant, making the whole world shift and lurch.

Beside him, Fenris noticed what Hawke could only assume was all the colour draining out of his face, to be replaced by sickened pallor. "Slowly, breathe. Allow yourself to adjust."

Forcing a weak grin, Hawke followed the advice, drawing in a few long, deep breaths before gathering himself enough to reply. "I'm fine," he said eventually, and the words came easier, if no less rough. "Felt worse after a night at the Hanged Man."

"Damned right you have." Finally getting a look at Varric, Hawke took note that his trusty dwarf was standing in a way that clearly favoured his left side, and was sporting a rather nasty looking gash along his thick forearm. His coat was nowhere to be seen. "Remember that weird Rivaini liquor? Black as tar and twice as rank?"

Wheezing out a faint laugh, Hawke tried hard not to wince. "And the half-naked woman that came with it? Bits and pieces." Isabela had been a treasure when she'd blown through Kirkwall— feisty, flirty, and deadly. She'd also managed to rob them blind before she moved on, which was rather impressive. "Mmhm. Worse than this."

When Zevran melted out of the darkness, nearly sopping with blood, Hawke felt a kernel of tension ease in his gut. He hadn't had the chance to ask if their Antivan friend had been as lucky with his Crow, or less so, but he appeared largely unharmed.

"Ah, and the sleeping beauty awakes! _Bravo_!" Sweeping an arm to indicate their surroundings, Zevran smirked broadly. "I have done a body count, or a pieces-of-body count in some cases, and the Crow cell has been effectively eliminated, finally. Are we not ridiculously awesome?"

"Never any doubt," Hawke agreed, then tested the waters by pressing a kiss against the side of Fenris' jaw. He didn't even get a sour look for his trouble. "Help me up, love?"

* * *

><p>With Anders' sparkles fully expended on fitting all Hawke's pieces back together, as well as working against the incredibly deadly poison that had spread through his system like chokedamp through a Darktown slum, they were forced to clean up the Crow camp the old fashioned way. Liberal sprinklings of dried grass bundles and driftwood made for a perfect bonfire, and once the blaze began in earnest, every scrap of Antiva was tossed on to roast (except Zevran). Everything had already been searched for valuables, and the flames rose tall and smoky with the addition of bodies, tents, and unwanted gear.<p>

Hawke wasn't permitted to take part in the clean up, relegated to sit and watch when it became clear his legs were still too shaky to stand on his own for very long. Nearly felled by the worst bloody poison in Thedas, the Quiet Death… Maker, Hawke had only even used the foul stuff once, on special request for a very, very hefty sum, and it had been nerve-wracking just to mix it.

He thought he knew precisely how lucky he'd been. Quiet Death was often instantly and irrevocably fatal, but on occasion it was a slightly more leisurely killer. He simply assumed he'd reacted slower, possibly touched by the Maker's own luck, which gave Anders the time to stop the poison's ghastly spread.

It wasn't until they were back home, with explicit instructions from Anders to stay confined to bed for at least three days (_resting_, the mage had added testily, when Hawke had leered just a tiny bit), that Hawke realised he'd not been given the whole story.

Blood and other filth had been gently scrubbed away in their washbasin, and Hawke had been more than content to let Fenris take the lead, wiping them both down with a soft, wet cloth. He felt like hammered shit, like he'd been kicked around by a qunari for a few hours, but having a handsome, shirtless elf tending to him was a fantastic windfall.

Insisting that he could make his own blighted tea had been an exercise in futility, which was how he found himself ensconced in blankets, pouting and waiting for Fenris to come in with a mug of… whatever he managed to make. Likely something that was tea only by the loosest of definitions, but Hawke would drink it anyway, because— _blast it all_—he was a besotted fool, and maybe still a little wobbly on his feet.

Quicker than should have been possible (which did not bode well for the tea), Fenris strode into the bedroom with a large, steaming mug in hand, as well as a plate of what turned out to be bread and cheese. The fact that he'd had time to get food together as well did not instil Hawke with much hope for a decent cuppa.

"Oh you blessed marvel—" Reaching out, Hawke made grabbing motions that weren't at all well-mannered, but he wasn't about to act like wholly like an adult when he was being treated like a child with his first fever. "Mm, thank you, my darling."

Hawke cupped his fingers around the warm wooden mug, absorbing the heat greedily. Fenris crawled up onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the tea overmuch, and Hawke swallowed back a surprised sound when that shaggy white head settled down to rest lightly on his shoulder. It wasn't odd for Fenris to be affectionate when they were alone, but it was obvious that this unfortunate mishap had shaken the poor man quite badly.

"Once my three days are up," Hawke said, watching the steam rise from his mug. "We can go visit Mother and Bethany, let them know the worst is over. We'll have to keep an ear to the ground for a few months, of course, just in case. Oh, and I'll need to make a trip to the Gallows for some of that brilliant stain remover… a good scrub with that, and I'll be my old self again, all peaches and cream."

Fenris hummed quietly, polite but distracted, and laid one slender hand against Hawke's chest, where his pectorals peeked out from under the blankets. He wasn't moving, wasn't really paying attention, and Hawke let him stew for a bit, taking a sip of tea. It was weak, as he'd feared, and a few too many leaves had escaped straining, but it did manage to be warm and homey all the same.

The plate of food was sitting on the quilt between them, just within reach, and Hawke nabbed a hunk of firm white cheese. Swallowing wasn't going to be especially pleasant, he could guess that simply from the scratchy feeling of the tea going down, but he was feeling too light-headed not to eat. Nibbling carefully, he rested his cheek on Fenris' crown when his lover shifted closer, the edge of one long ear tickling Hawke's jaw.

"I'm all right," he said softly, once he managed to swallow a few bites of cheese. "Truly. Bit scuffed up, granted, but it could have been worse." Fenris didn't answer, and Hawke considered changing tack. His beloved, broody elf was always more comfortable with practicality, compared to sentimentality.

Finishing his cheese, glancing dubiously at bread that looked a tad too crusty to bear at the moment, Hawke continued speaking into the silence of the room. The light of dawn was streaming in around the edges of their curtains, and that reminded him of a question.

"Everything after you took out that Crow is a bit of a blur, to be honest." More of a nightmare than a blur, what with the agony and the terror, drowning in darkness, but that wasn't important anymore. "How long was I unconscious?"

Of course, when Fenris finally spoke, it wasn't what Hawke had been expecting at all. "Nearly two hours."

"Nearly… _what_?" Little wonder Anders had been exhausted. Maker's breath, Quiet Death was a foul brew. "A two hour nap and I'm still drowsy as a cat in a sunbeam. I'm getting so bloody lazy; I'm surprised you can stand it."

No laughter, but no chastisement either. Something was off.

"Fenris." Taking care with his mildly trembling hands, Hawke set his mug on his bedside table. "Love, look at me. I'm all right." It took actual, physical coaxing— a touch under his chin, lifting— to get Fenris to raise his head. When he did, Hawke could finally see the deeply haunted look that put such tension around his eyes, shadowy and sad.

"I held your heart." Whatever soothing tripe Hawke was going to offer died in his throat. Fenris' voice was stilted, wooden, but full of gravity that demanded Hawke hang on every word. "The mage… he tried to draw the poison from you, but it had moved too fast. You were dead in my arms." _Andraste's grace._"He told me to reach inside, to force a rhythm as he cleaned your blood. It was madness, but what else… I couldn't…"

When Fenris ducked away from his hand, curling against his chest again, Hawke couldn't have stopped him even if he'd wanted to. Instead, he felt his arm move of its own volition, wrapping around a warm back and cradling his lover closer. His mind… his mind was preoccupied.

_You were dead in my arms._

Hawke remembered vividly the kind of darkness that had gripped him when Fenris had been missing, taken by that sadistic bitch of a magister. The kind of helpless fear and deep, blood-red rage that had overwhelmed his very soul…

That had been so long ago, before he knew the taste of Fenris' breath first thing in the morning, or the blissful feel of his soft, pink tongue tickling across the back of Hawke's knee. It was before he'd discovered the stoic elf was an unrepentant blanket thief and a secret cuddler, and ages before he first heard husky declarations and promises murmured against his ear.

The idea of losing him now, after all that, was unspeakable.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, stupidly, and Fenris shook his head, pressing a hard kiss just above Hawke's thudding heart.

Eventually, Fenris got up just long enough to kick himself free of his leggings and burrow under the covers, long limbs winding around Hawke like vines. Tangled together—by some miracle, yes, they were still _together_— they slipped into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

><p>The next time he woke, he discovered there was a bit of blood in his piss, but Anders had warned him to expect that. Muscles that had been aching before he slept were now screaming blighted murder, knotted and cramped enough to make him shuffle like an old man. A glance in the mirror above their chest of drawers confirmed that he looked just as stunning as he felt, with eyes sunken like pissholes in the snow, and all the exquisitely handsome pallor of a walking corpse, even under his false tan.<p>

He lived a charmed life.

"Well shit," he rasped, leaning on the edge of the dresser and scrubbing his face roughly with one hand. "Apparently dying does nothing for the complexion. How disappointing."

Fenris was out in the front room, puttering around and possibly scrounging up some breakfast. Hawke was careful to keep his pitiful complaining to himself— he was alive, after all. Just because he didn't quite _feel_alive, that didn't mean he wasn't enormously grateful.

The sound of a knocking against wood, sharp and quick, was enough to make him jerk around, wrenching his abused body as he dropped into a defensive stance. The front door, he was almost certain, but tottering out to check would be foolish and utterly unhelpful. If it was indeed a visitor of the unfriendly sort, the last thing Fenris would need was a broken down, half-naked assassin to trip over.

"Safe," Fenris called after an anxious moment, during which time Hawke had managed to stagger over and grab one of his daggers. "Messenger from Varric."

The flood of tension leaving his body was enough to make Hawke sag pathetically, just catching himself on one of the bedposts before his face made special friends with the floor. Bugger and _blast_—

He was sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, beaded with cold sweat, when Fenris appeared in the doorway with a note and a pair of small, blue glass bottles in hand. Taking one look at him, Fenris narrowed his eyes and padded near, reaching out to wipe a hand back through Hawke's damp hair.

"You are feeling worse than you said." _You dirty liar_was an unspoken, but not unheard addendum. "Is there any pain in your chest?"

Only the obnoxious twist of embarrassment at being coddled like an invalid, but Hawke bit his tongue about that. "No, just my muscles are cranky, is all. My guts and other important innards feel perfectly not-stabbed and poison-free. Nothing to fret about."

If the lingering frown were any indication, Fenris wasn't entirely convinced. Still, he sat gingerly beside Hawke and held the note out without further fuss. "Here. I think it's written in that ridiculous cipher."

Indeed, the scrap of paper looked like a trade manifest, but a few spelling errors here and there helped reveal the brief message. "Everything quiet. Food delivery tomorrow. Expect you for cards next week." The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, and Hawke balled up the paper, tossing it aside. "A food delivery sounds promising, knowing Varric. And what, pray tell, have you got there?"

Rolling the wax-sealed bottled slowly in his palms, Fenris offered a small shrug. "If I was to guess, knowing Varric? I would say a balm for your vanity."

The Formari potion. He was going to kiss that dwarf.

"Ah, give it here—" He wasn't his usual nimble self, but there was some life left in his battered body. He managed to snatch one bottle before Fenris could pull it away, but had to settle for tackling the elf under his bulk to get his hands on the second.

It wasn't the most comfortable occasion he'd ever pressed Fenris into the mattress, but Hawke tolerated the soreness with a playful smirk, which was smushed against Fenris' cheek as he lay fully on top of his lover.

"_Hawke_—" Fenris wriggled, but didn't struggle too much, likely in an attempt to avoid hurting him. "Get off, you lummox—"

Dizzyingly sore or not, Hawke was thrilled about Varric's thoughtfulness, and eager to douse himself. "Give it," he said again, licking the corner of Fenris' mouth as his fingers closed over the second bottle, trying unsuccessfully to pry it from his lover's steely grip.

Growling in warning, Fenris finally fought back in earnest, using a fraction of his surprising strength to roll them over, pinning Hawke in place with powerful thighs caging either side of his hips and one hand pressing down against a shoulder. Wincing slightly more than necessary only earned Hawke a dry look, rather than his freedom.

"Perhaps if you had an ounce of patience," Fenris rumbled, settling back until his arse— scandalously loose cotton trousers and all— rested lightly against Hawke's crotch. The ruthless bastard. "I might have had the chance to offer my help in applying it."

_Fenris_had been the one to insist on following Anders' (excessively) cautious instructions about rest and recuperation, and now he was offering his help in applying a slick, silky potion all over Hawke's body…

_Andraste's blazing **quim**, don't just fucking stare at him, you slack-jawed dolt—_

He would question the change of heart later. Maybe. If he still had any higher thought processes.

* * *

><p>The first step was dragging most of the quilts off the bed, leaving only white sheets and pillows behind— the potion would strip dye out of just about anything. Slipping free of his baggy lounging trousers was no great trouble, despite his muscles doing their best to inform him just how bad an idea it had been to tackle Fenris. Aching and sore was not generally how he liked to <em>begin<em>a romp in bed, but at least they were both getting naked— ever the optimist, Hawke's cock stirred slightly.

He made good coin working for Varric, and this bed had been one of the first lavish things he'd purchased when he realised he could actually afford more than the clothes on his back and a good pair of blades. It was wide and roomy, with a sturdy, well-made wooden frame (sex with Fenris often put the fine craftsmanship to the test, but beyond some raucous creaking, the frame held steady); Hawke adored his bed, and he had begun to love it even more since it became _their_bed.

Easing himself onto the mattress now, Hawke grunted as the muscles around his ribs twinged, but it wasn't agony. Unpleasant, but he'd dealt with worse.

"Here," Fenris said, standing at the other side of the bed and sliding pillows around to his liking. "Easy. Take your time."

He didn't try to help Hawke get into a comfortable position, didn't even offer, and Hawke was irrationally, mannishly grateful for that. He wasn't completely feeble, just sore. Scooting slowly over to the small nest of pillows Fenris had laid out near the headboard, Hawke lowered himself onto the soft, yielding down— Maker, he loved this bed— before even considering how Fenris might want him situated.

"Shit," he hissed quietly, lolling his head over to watch his gorgeous lover crawl up beside him, supplies in hand. At the sight of all those smooth, familiar curves of muscle and glimmering lyrium, Hawke's prick gave another small twitch. "Did you want my back or my front first?"

"Your front," Fenris replied, and he sounded fairly amused about the question, lips ever so slightly quirked on one side. "I'll start with your hair and your face and move down."

That sounded fine, and Hawke said as much, moments before Fenris climbed over and lightly straddled his stomach, keeping most of his weight balanced on his knees.

_Holy Andraste, bride of the Maker, what—_

"Easy," Fenris said again, stroking dry hands soothingly over Hawke's collarbones. "Let me tend to you."

Oh, he could do that. Being tended to was exactly the sort of thing he could do. And having Fenris say it, just like that, with that half-smile and fondness warming his eyes, unhidden…

He was getting a bit distracted, but he hadn't realised what a far-flung little jaunt his thoughts were taking until he failed to notice Fenris cracking the wax on one of the bottles. Slick hands pressing against the sides of his face were a surprise, but not a bad one, and Fenris spread the potion over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose with unwavering calm, though the tiny furrow between his brows spoke of concentration.

Hawke loved to be touched, even after years of dangerous, venomous work had honed his instincts to avoid physical contact. He loved to be touched by this elf, especially, and the feel of Fenris' fingers— callused and firm, and focused entirely on him— was enough to draw a very breathy sigh from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Close your eyes for a moment," Fenris prompted, and Hawke did so a bit reluctantly, enjoying the view. The potion was smooth, not quite oily but not especially creamy either, and it absorbed quickly. The fact that it left Hawke's skin feeling dewy and smelling faintly of thyme and embrium was the reason he always paid the extra gold on those occasions he'd been forced to buy it— there was a cheaper variation, but it made him itch and had a strong, medicinal tang.

Cool potion was rubbed into his forehead, then down across his eyelids, and when Fenris' thumbs began stroking along his eyebrows, Hawke was very pleasantly surprised to feel lips press softly against his own. It was a warm kiss, all slow, moist lips and mingled breath, and Hawke strained to chase it when Fenris drew back, _hours_too soon.

"You're purring, Callum." Brushing his nose against Hawke's, Fenris began working the potion along his jaw, palms scraping stubble. "What other noises can you make, I wonder?"

"Oh, is that how it's going to be?" Ignoring the cramping in his thighs, Hawke shifted his hips up, seeking contact with the perfect arse that was perched _just_out of reach for any kind of friction.

"If you fidget, I will stop." Cupping his jaw in those incredibly strong hands, Fenris gave him a look that brooked no argument or negotiation. "And leave you dappled like a horse. Let me do this."

"But I—" _Shit._Hawke relaxed as much as possible, dropping his hips back onto the bed. "Fine, yes, all right. I'll be good."

Huffing out a small laugh, Fenris adjusted the pillows to lift Hawke's shoulders a bit higher. "I sincerely doubt that. Leave miracles in the realm of the divine."

"You are a cruel, wicked little elf." Tilting his neck to allow easier access, Hawke struggled to maintain an air of feigned insult as Fenris began working the potion into his hair, rubbing circles against his scalp. "Slandering my— oh, _Maker_, that feels good— my character with your mockery."

Humming something that certainly didn't sound apologetic, Fenris smoothed the potion from root to tip, winding his fingers through the loose, shaggy curls at Hawke's nape, making him shiver.

The distinct lack of ravishment in the immediate future was so cosmically unfair, it was nearly sickening.

He managed to keep a leash on his simmering arousal all through application of the potion to his neck and shoulders, even when Fenris began digging his fingers into tight muscle, massaging knots away. His arms were next, one at a time, only to be left weak and floppy as Fenris' hands worked some kind of magic, drawing out his tension with every deliberate stroke.

Hawke felt like one of those dolls his Mother had sewn for Bethany when they were children, with long, droopy limbs stuffed with flock and weighted down with sand. He was purring again, and Maker preserve him, he didn't _care_.

Then Fenris began rubbing the potion into his chest, and all his good intentions went tumbling into the Void.

Access to his chest and stomach required Fenris to move, knees shuffling down the mattress, and _Maker have mercy_, Hawke found his lazily hardening prick suddenly nestled in the cleft of Fenris' arse. The haze of simmering arousal and contentment lit up spectacularly, like tossing glitterdust on an open flame, and both he and Fenris let out a deep, desperate groan at the same time.

Bracing one hand on Hawke's chest, Fenris kept his hips perfectly still, trying to collect himself. The first stuttering thrust of Hawke's hips made him jolt, eyes flashing. "Stop that. I… this will not work."

Before Hawke could argue that _Maker yes_, it would work splendidly, Fenris was clambering off his brilliant, sexy roost to kneel chastely on the bed. Or, as chastely as he could kneel, with such an impressive erection bobbing between his legs.

It was possible that Hawke may have whined at the loss, a frantic, needy sound, but he would challenge anyone to keep collected when so brutally denied the ecstasy of that perfect, tight arse. It would be a theoretical kind of a challenge, however, as he would also violently murder anyone who tried to get that close to that arse (if Fenris didn't gut the unfortunate bastard first).

Before he could reach out, or roll over, or even start begging, Fenris' hands were back on him, slippery with potion as one wrapped around his cock and the other cupped his balls.

Hawke whined again, this time equal parts desperation and relief, as Fenris began jacking him with measured, familiar motions. Exactly the right twist of the wrist on every upstroke, with the pressure of a thumb teasing his slit and the sensitive spot just under the head, sliding and squeezing in an ideal, quickening rhythm…

"Rather convenient, I suppose," Fenris rumbled, voice husky with his own arousal. "That you were so very thorough with your dye."

Gasping out a breathless laugh, Hawke thrust shallowly into his lover's slick fist, the waves of building pleasure only slightly dimmed by the aching in his thighs and back. The hand on his balls was rolling gently, the fingers teasing behind his sac causing sparks to skitter up his spine, and he did not have the mental fortitude to keep his self-control harnessed for very long. It didn't help that Fenris was looking at him _like that_, with cheeks flushed rosy, his eyes half-lidded, and his expression heavy with more than lust.

Pleasure, affection, and a staggering amount of relief— this was a reclaiming of what had nearly been lost, and Hawke was more than happy to let Fenris take (or give) whatever he needed. That in mind, he made no attempt to hold back as his lover played his body like a minstrel with a lute, moaning and melting under every deft, knowing touch.

When he came, it was with his eyes rolled back in his head, his heels digging hard into the mattress, and no sound in his ears but Fenris muttering fiercely in Arcanum.

The potion wasn't edible, which was something Hawke hadn't considered a serious flaw until he found himself in this situation. Watching Fenris lick his lips absently while wiping Hawke's spunk from his hand was excruciating, and even barely removed from the last tremors of orgasm, Hawke was burning for those lips to trace paths all over him.

Feeling significantly more relaxed after having all thinking portions of his mind milked out of his cock, Hawke lifted himself up on one elbow and reached hungrily for Fenris' neglected erection, only to have his hand swatted away.

"Leave it," Fenris growled, inhaling slowly through his nose, but the gruff brush-off softened after a moment of stillness. "Later, once we are done with this." Dripping more potion on his hands— and if they were trembling ever so slightly, Hawke wasn't about to mention it— Fenris began rubbing wide arcs over Hawke's stomach and ribs.

Sensing that his lover was clawing back some measure of his enviable control, Hawke forced himself to calm as well. With the haze of orgasm softening all the edges of the world, and Fenris kneading his muscles, it was easy to slip into a kind of peaceful lethargy, waiting for _later, once we are done with this_, to become _now, Callum, spread your legs._

"Mmm…" Squirming as Fenris' attentions moved down to his thighs, Hawke wasn't entirely able to keep his thoughts to himself. "Maker, what your hands do to me, love." Thumbs bit into the knot just above his right knee, but after the first clench of pain, the release was a blissful relief. "Yes, _fuck_, just like that."

His calf and foot received similar treatment, a firm and effective massage, then his left leg, but by this point, Hawke was a bit too lost in sensation and fantasy to truly follow the logic of the plot. Grunting in confusion when Fenris turned him over onto his belly, he felt almost embarrassingly boneless, though he couldn't help but bow up into the sensation of Fenris' hand sliding along his spine.

Without Fenris to stare at, and now that the only discomfort left in his body was the cramping in his back (which was currently being dealt with, determinedly), Hawke began to drift into some strange realm that wasn't sleep, but wasn't entirely lucid either. Massages… massages were a gift from the Maker, he decided, and it would be a grievous sin not to partake in them more often. He'd always had a special affection for Fenris' skill at working the tension out of his neck after a long day, and there were few things that made him giddier than knowledge he could turn his stoic lover into a drooling puddle with the correct application of pressure to the thickly callused soles of his feet.

But a full-body massage… yes, if Hawke had anything to say about it, they were going to start doing this more.

The part of Hawke's mind that was always alert noted Fenris shifting around, but he didn't think too much of it until one arm wrapped around his chest, rolling him onto his side and cradling him in Fenris' embrace. That would have been nice, simply on the face of it, but the hot, rock-hard erection prodding him in the arse was the icing on what promised to be a very satisfying cake.

Nuzzling Hawke's ear, Fenris' reached down and began petting his thigh, speaking quietly and a tiny bit strained. "Tell me truly if you can take me inside. I won't risk hurting you."

As quick as the answer came, Hawke bit his tongue— this was important to Fenris. He took a moment to honestly consider the state of his body, and thank the Maker, he wasn't disappointed by what he found.

"Oh yes, inside," he murmured, slowly bringing one hand up to reach back, stroking Fenris' jaw. "Won't hurt, promise. Ah, love… let me feel you."

Blessedly, Fenris didn't argue, bringing Hawke's leg back to rest comfortably on his hip. The potion absorbed too quickly to be a decent lubricant, but oils and salves were something Hawke kept around the house in abundance. A quick fumble at the bedside table, and Fenris was pressing two fingers into his arse, spreading familiar slick.

"Fenris, love," Hawke grumbled, gathering enough gumption to wriggle. "_Now_, blast it all. If I get any more relaxed, you'll have to pour me into a bucket."

Fenris said something in return, muffled against Hawke's neck and possibly in Arcanum, but there wasn't time to ask him to speak up before fingers withdrew, and the wider, hotter pressure of a cockhead took their place. Groaning, Hawke rocked back, earning himself a warning hiss right in his ear.

Despite the mantra chanting in the back of his mind— _in, now, now, **in**, fuck_— Hawke had enough sense not to push, letting Fenris set the pace for the moment. His patience was rewarded a few heartbeats later, when the first cautious, initial thrusts shifted into a steady push, and then Fenris was there, _home_, filling him up.

"Oh, Maker, _yes_—" Latching on to the arm that was holding him seemed like a fine plan, if only to keep from losing himself. Fenris had him; Fenris held him.

Fenris held his heart, by all definitions, and Fenris had saved him.

And that was grand.

* * *

><p>Waking up well-fucked and tangled in nude, elven limbs was an experience Hawke could not imagine ever becoming tiresome, especially when the owner of said limbs was willing to fuck him again very shortly after his eyes opened. The massage had done wonders, as they both pleasantly discovered when shoving a few pillows under his stomach and getting pounded like a bitch in heat was nothing but pleasurable.<p>

Hawke was also thrilled to discover the potion had done its job admirably, and after the wake-up sex, he spent some blissful time rediscovering the look of his own creamy skin against Fenris' olive tan and lyrium white.

"You know, I get to grow my roguish scruff again." Rubbing his scratchy jaw against Fenris' smooth chest, Hawke smiled gleefully. "And my chest hair, and the hair on my crotch… Maker, my balls have been so cold and entirely underdressed. Will you help me keep them well-oiled while it's growing back so they don't itch too terribly?"

Rolling his eyes, Fenris continued combing his fingers through the hair on Hawke's head, which had returned to its usual warm, golden hue. "I'll consider it, for the proper incentive— and _no_, simply having the opportunity to touch your balls is not proper incentive." Deflating slightly, Hawke tweaked one of Fenris' dusky nipples in retaliation before licking it in apology.

"I have a question," Fenris said after a few moments of quiet, and Hawke made a small noise of interest, gingerly tracing the edge of a lyrium line with the tip of one finger. When permitted, Hawke took great pleasure in imbuing the markings with as many good sensations as possible. "After all that trouble and time, and now the itching, has anyone besides me even seen your naked groin since this entire debacle began?"

"_That_ is a trick question." Fenris raised a brow, waiting for more, and Hawke was happy to provide. "If I say no, you're going to go on about how it was wasted effort, and if I say yes, you'll end up killing someone. Neither of those options seems nearly as fun as touching my balls."

Silence reigned again, until finally, Fenris snorted. "You are perverse and absurd."

"And you're such a charmer," Hawke replied sweetly, before stretching up to nip at Fenris' chin. Being alive and rather spry again was making him feel all sorts of feisty, and it didn't take much convincing to catch his handsome elf in a deep, wet kiss.

Before things could get even halfway dirty, however, a knock from the front door had Hawke cursing and fumbling for a weapon and some clothes. Chances were good it was simply the delivery Varric had mentioned, but _chances were good_ was a notion only very stupid assassins counted on (and they didn't count on it for long). Fenris was only a moment behind him, pulling on his cotton trousers, while Hawke slipped deftly into his own and knotted the drawstring. It wasn't armour, but it covered his arse.

With three small throwing knives palmed in his right hand, and one of his larger daggers in his left, Hawke offered Fenris a wink and a cheeky smile before slinking towards the bedroom door, peeking carefully out into the front room. The front door was closed, seemingly undisturbed, but the large, cloth-covered basket sitting peacefully on their small dining table spoke of some unexpected guest.

There was also the matter of the rather raffish elf lounging lazily on the settee.

Zevran. Holding up a hand to indicate Fenris should hang back for the moment, Hawke considered the situation laid out before him.

It wasn't random Crows come for revenge. That was something.

He liked Zevran, the elf seemed like entertaining company, but Hawke didn't trust him even vaguely. That wasn't terribly surprising— he could, after all, literally count all the people he trusted using only the fingers on one hand. Not even the thumb.

_No loose ends_ was a rather unpleasant possibility, but it was a niggling warning in the back of his mind.

Silently mouthing a few more colourful curses, Hawke rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. He hadn't quite decided what he was going to do, when Zevran spoke.

"Hawke, my friend, I am certain you've had time to undo the chains or wrangle the nug back into its pen— whatever you lovely Kirkwallers do behind closed doors. I've no ill intentions, so please, do join me."

Behind him, Fenris made a very dangerous sound, and Hawke did not need to look back to know he was likely all-aglow.

"Oh, isn't this just blighted wonderful," Hawke said under his breath, then stalked cautiously out to meet their guest.

This was not going to be pretty, Hawke was almost certain. Even without the friendly lechery, Fenris did not take well to trespassers in his personal space. In the time since he'd wandered into Kirkwall and into Hawke's life, Fenris' definition of personal space had expanded to include not simply his body, but also his home, and his lover.

It was an understandable quirk. Being able to claim a thing as one's own, to hold and protect it, was not an uncomplicated concept for a former slave. Hawke, for his part, actively encouraged the notion that Fenris had a place he belonged; as long as he didn't start pissing against the front door to mark his territory (or pissing on Hawke, come to think of it), the protectiveness didn't really present a problem.

Well, it was no problem until they had unexpected, uninvited (and as far as Fenris was concerned, wholly unwelcome) guests. Hawke was hoping to come out the other side of this conversation with an absolute minimal amount of sundered flesh and broken furniture.

Zevran certainly knew how to show himself off, Hawke would give him that much. Sprawled out across the settee like a cat basking in a sunbeam, the pteriges of his cuirass artfully draped over swathes of tanned, trimly muscled thighs, and that lazy smirk that spoke of interest and apathy in equal measure…

Hawke was a tiny bit jealous, though he would only ever admit it privately (and by privately, he meant only within his own head, and even there, only very quietly). Even with a few scuffs of wear showing at his edges, and faint lines at the corners of his sharp, golden eyes, Zevran oozed an easy sensuality that was designed specifically to be ridiculously over-the-top, or irresistible— whatever would work best to put a target at ease.

It was a tough act to do well, and even tougher to perfect. Hawke had always been more of a shadow rather than a popinjay, at least professionally, which presented its own challenges and rewards. Still, it was interesting to see another assassin so committed to his work, without being so damned sinister about the whole thing.

Zevran made no move to get up when Hawke came out into the front room, with Fenris hot on his heels, but his smirk did widen toothily. "My word, you are a new man, my friend; so gloriously fair and Fereldan it makes my mouth water. I will have to adjust my fantasies immediately."

Smirking slightly in return, Hawke made no attempt to hide his bare chest from Zevran's perusal (flexing, possibly, a little bit). "And a good morning to you too, Zev. Unexpected, lecherous houseguests are always my favourite."

Waving his hand absently in the approximate direction of the basket, Zevran spared only a moment of playful scrutiny at a scowling Fenris. "Hm, _very_nice as well. Varric sends his regards, and some rather fine wine, among other things. I selflessly offered to act as a scandalously sexy delivery boy, and I've even brought you a token of my thanks as well."

The mention of wine wasn't enough to lighten Fenris' mood, and Hawke resigned himself to either diffusing the situation quickly, or dealing with bloodstains on the rugs. Again. Keeping vigilant watch on their guest, Hawke relaxed his stance. "We appreciate the thought, of course, but if the token is in your smallclothes, I'm afraid you'll have to keep it."

Laughing warmly, Zevran finally sat up, slinging one arm along the back of the settee and planting both feet on the floor. "Oh, as if I wear smallclothes. But no, you will find something on the table, there— a very impressive blade, and my gift to you. Use it in good health, to inflict the poorest health on others."

There was indeed a flash of something metallic hidden behind the basket, and the tingle of Hawke's curiosity sent his feet moving, padding over with fingers twitching.

"Hawke," Fenris said, voice tight with mistrust. Peering around the basket, Hawke set his own dagger carefully on the table. "_Hawke_, this is foolishness."

Reassurances died on his tongue when he picked up the new blade, his _gift_. "No, this… this is a sexy, sexy dagger. Holy Maker…"

"Ah, is she not magnificent? She is called _Astucia_— Finesse, in the Common Tongue." The blade was wicked, curved and elegant, with a deviously extended cutting edge below the handgrip. There was a faint, earthy scent lingering around it, like a lush forest after a rainstorm, and the runes etched into the polished red steel spoke of some manner of enchantment. "For your invaluable assistance and, I hope, accepted in the spirit of friendship and continued camaraderie. It never hurts to have a few dangerous friends scattered about Thedas, or so I've found over the years."

Tearing his eyes reluctantly away from his marvellous new blade, which was particularly well balanced and _so sexy_, Hawke found himself pinned by two keen elven gazes. Zevran looked quite pleased with himself, while Fenris' expression was flinty, lyrium still simmering faintly.

"I… sorry." Shaking his head slightly, Hawke couldn't help but grin. "Right. Maybe give me a little warning the next time you bring a vengeful assassin's guild down on my head, in the spirit of friendship. Not that the change of pace wasn't thrilling."

"Ah, a little spontaneity is good for the soul," Zevran drawled, without a hint of regret.

* * *

><p>The very first thing Fenris did after Zevran took his leave was stalk over to the basket of goodies and fling the cloth aside, riffling quickly through the contents. Perching on the arm of the settee, Hawke watched his lover's profile cautiously, waiting for a cue.<p>

"Here," Fenris said after a moment, picking up a familiar reddish bottle and twisting the stopper free, bits of wax falling carelessly back into the basket. Sniffing the bottle's mouth, his expression wrinkled into something mildly disgusted before he took a sip, grimacing even more at the flavour of healing draught. Before Hawke could ask, Fenris was holding out the bottle. "Tastes the same, and no strange tingling, though I suppose that doesn't mean much. Drink."

"Did you just—" Standing, grabbing the bottle with one hand and Fenris' elbow with the other, Hawke resisted the urge to shout, stepping close enough to press their foreheads together instead. "You're testing for poisons now? Fantastic. Let's forget for a moment that I can name dozens of poisons that wouldn't do more than give me a headache or a case of the runs, but would leave you bleeding out your eyes. Please, do go on. I never figured I'd die of sheer aggravation, but I'm morbidly interested in seeing how this plays out."

Making a decidedly displeased sound, Fenris turned his head, half-heartedly trying to wriggle away. "Yes, _joke_. Hilarious, as always. Just leave me be."

"Oh, sure thing." Ducking, Hawke followed Fenris' face, craning his neck until they were nearly nose-to-nose again. "That sounds just like something I would do. Talk to me, love. This is not your usual charming protectiveness."

"Tell me why you trust him."

"I don't." Even at this awkward angle, Hawke could see those glittering green eyes flash dangerously. "I _don't_, Fenris, not really. I simply know what he is, at least a little of how he thinks, and adapt to that. But, my broody darling, I know _you_even better— Zevran is not the issue here."

Fenris didn't argue, but neither did he agree; shifting back a bit until his arse rested against the edge of the table, he simply glared at the floor, silent and severe. Eventually, Hawke gave up on waiting for an explanation.

"Fine," he said wearily, setting the bottle on the table and planting his hands on either side of Fenris' hips, mostly to keep from rubbing at the growing ache in his temples. "Let's think back, shall we? You know what my first thought was after I killed that bitch of a magister in that dank, hideous slavers' den? When I turned around, and you were there, breathing, still alive?" Leaning forward, Hawke brushed his nose gently along Fenris' tightening jaw. "You wouldn't even let me touch you then, and I still wanted nothing more than to bundle you up in my bed, in my arms, and hide away from the world. I'd almost lost you, and I was scared bloody stiff about it. It felt idiotic— you're a grown man, skilful and strong and entirely able— but I couldn't stop those thoughts."

Hawke could feel Fenris' jaw work for a moment, teeth grinding. Then, finally, he spoke, though his voice was so quiet Hawke almost had to strain to hear, even so close.

"When… when did such irrational thoughts fade?"

Pressing a kiss just under one slender ear, Hawke smiled wryly. "I'll let you know when it happens."

"What?" Suddenly there was a hand on Hawke's chest, pushing him back, until Fenris was staring him down, expression almost accusing. "Are you being serious? How is that possible?"

Ploughing through the discomfort that was being stirred up by hashing out such… intense feelings, Hawke sighed softly. "It's possible because I love you, and that's certainly not meant to be a rational kind of a thing. We both live incredibly dangerous lives, but we're both very skilled at what we do. I worry about you, though I do try to keep the majority of my ridiculous fretting under control. It's as close to normal as I expect we get."

Rather surprisingly, Fenris raised his hand very slowly and brushed a bit of hair from Hawke's forehead. The strands dragged across his skin, tacky and slightly damp.

"You're sweating," Fenris said, not quite meeting Hawke's eyes anymore, but at least the dark, edgy quality had leeched out of his tone. "And you've gone pale. Drink your potion and go get back in bed."

Hawke might have shrugged off the concern, but the room had indeed started spinning ever so slightly, and getting Fenris to open up about something he was so obviously embarrassed about was not a challenge to be taken up lightly. Stepping back, he caught Fenris' hand and brushed a quick kiss against the palm; fingers curled lightly around his jaw in return, and Hawke didn't have to force the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Gladly." Snatching up the potion, Hawke wiggled the bottle playfully, careful not to spill. "But bring something to wash this down, would you? There must be a few things in that basket tastier than elfroot."

* * *

><p>Zevran had been entirely correct— the wine Varric sent along was rather nice, especially paired with glorious, mouth-watering little meat pies that Hawke was utterly convinced had come from his mother's own kitchen. Maker, he loved that dwarf, nearly as much as he loved flaky pastry stuffed with tender beef, rich gravy and peas.<p>

"Oh Maker, this is paradise," he mumbled, trying his best to keep crumbs out of the bed. He was marginally successful. "Mm, just perfect. You know, Mother could teach you how to make these—"

"I will geld you," Fenris interrupted, glancing up from his own half-eaten pie. "If the rest of that sentence was meant to contain the word _wife_, or even an insinuation. You are fully capable of learning to make them yourself."

Shifting his legs, Hawke subtly removed his delicate bits from immediate phasing radius. "I could probably scald a pot of water, unless it was for a pot of tea, but thank you for the vote of confidence and the horrifying threat to my person." It was a bit of a risk, given the mercurial mood of the day, but Hawke still leaned over and nuzzled a kiss against Fenris' bare shoulder.

"I am not a napkin." Brushing bits of freshly deposited pastry from his skin, Fenris didn't brush Hawke away, and his grouching was missing its heat. That was a very good sign.

After a few more long pulls of wine (mostly Fenris) and two more pies (both Hawke), Fenris held an arm out in invitation. Never one to refuse a cuddle from a handsome elf, Hawke scooted closer, tucking himself against Fenris' side as a lean arm wrapped around his back, holding him near.

"I would be furious if you tried to coddle me," Fenris said a few moments later, and once again his voice was very quite, almost small. "I am being ridiculous… I apologise."

Hawke hummed, but didn't otherwise respond, at least not immediately. Gently stroking lyrium lines and tanned skin, he let his mind wander a little, plucking at strings of ideas and dreams in which he rarely allowed himself to indulge.

There were bright, warm thoughts that he kept deep and secret, hardly allowing himself to even peek, out of some strange fear that to dwell too long would doom them. They were thoughts of grey hairs and crow's feet, and a small house on some remote Rivaini beach, warm and peaceful, and far away from anyone who'd ever seen his face. They weren't thoughts he'd ever considered, until he met the crotchety, utterly barmy elf who was currently staring off into space with a scowl that could strip paint.

Bethany would probably say it was more proof that the Maker had a strange sense of humour.

"When you first came to Kirkwall," he said eventually, reluctant to let those daft dreams out into the real world just yet. "And you were looking to hire someone to take care of that little, wrinkly-arsed problem, why did you come to me?"

Fenris' head turned, peering at him curiously, but Hawke didn't look up from tracing lyrium. After a moment, Fenris shrugged slightly. "I needed a guarantee, and your reputation among the city's seedier elements did much to recommend you. You are rather good at what you do, as you're so fond of pointing out."

"I'm rather fantastic at it, thank you very much. It's dangerous and dodgy, and sometimes a bit messy, but it's… shit, I'm hardly going to call it honest work, but it's good coin and I take pride in it."

"Callum—"

"Let me finish?" Glancing up, Hawke watched as Fenris opened, then closed his mouth. After a beat, he nodded, and Hawke grinned crookedly. "Worrying about me isn't a bad thing, love, but you know as well as I do that neither of us is suited to easy, safe work. Just remember that it's all right to be a bit irrational and protective now and then, so long as it only occasionally ends with you locking me in the bedroom for days on end. Locking us both in together, preferably."

Breathing deeply, Fenris settled back more comfortably against the pillows, absently squeezing Hawke's hip as he considered. "Hm. I suppose I can do that."

"Brilliant." Allowing his grin to blossom into something decidedly naughty, Hawke traced a curl of lyrium from the centre of Fenris' sternum, all the way to one dark brown nipple. "We could try the locking me in the bedroom thing right now, just for practice."

"For practice," Fenris agreed, just before leaning down to catch Hawke in a soft kiss.

This wasn't the end of this particular issue, Hawke was certain, but he also knew enough not to push. Fenris would work through these new nightmares on his own, doubtlessly after an excessive amount of brooding. All Hawke could do was be there for him; a warm body and a willing ear on any rare occasion he might choose to speak.

Warm and willing— well, he could certainly do that.

* * *

><p>Hawke had promised to drop in for a check-up with Anders once his three days abed were up, which made for a rather convenient trip down into the bowels of Darktown. The basement entrance of his Mother's estate was rather close to the natty little clinic, and given the eventful time they'd been having recently, it was past time for a family visit.<p>

The magical lantern was flickering brightly when he and Fenris meandered their way through the filth and squalor, and urchins milled around like moths. Nabbing a couple of small hands before they made it near his pockets (the little sods never seemed daring enough to pick on Fenris), Hawke clicked his tongue and fished out enough silver for one coin each.

"Here, you robbers. Go buy some bread before I decide to make a necklace of greedy fingers." The children snatched the coins reverently, scattering out into the slums, as usual. They knew better than to test him, just as they knew he always had a few coins to spare, or some sweets.

"One day you're going to be swarmed," Fenris warned, but his eyes were strangely soft. Butting their shoulders together, Hawke smiled broadly.

"Don't speak ill of my grubby entourage. I'm simply teaching the next generation of scoundrels and thieves some etiquette." Pushing one of the clinic doors open, he motioned sweepingly for Fenris to precede him. "After you, love. Do try not to snarl at the mouthy mage."

Inside, the clinic was mostly empty, save for an elderly elven man sleeping on a cot, and a human woman bouncing a quietly giggling toddler on her knee. The baby had a thick, green paste smeared over its chest. There was no sign of Anders, but Hawke was hardly foiled yet.

"Let me go check the back," he murmured. Confined spaces with mages weren't exactly prime conditions to put Fenris at ease. "Won't be a moment."

Hawke padded deeper into the clinic on silent feet, passing from public space to relatively private as Anders was still nowhere to be found. Then, even before he peeked around the thin wall that sectioned off what passed for Anders' bedroom, Hawke could hear the man's voice, pitched low and surprisingly thick with feeling.

"—don't want to hurt you. You deserve a better man… someone who won't break your heart. You deserve better." Before Hawke could inch away from what was obviously a very personal conversation, or to be honest, before he could settle in for some proper eavesdropping, the sound of another voice froze him solid.

"I've never known a better man than you," Bethany said softly, almost pleading. Hawke could just imagine her wide, watery eyes. "I don't want anyone else. I'm a grown woman; I know the risks, and I know how important the freedom of mages is to you. I know you'd die for it—"

"I _will_ die for it, sweetheart." Hawke felt his eye tic minutely. If this apostate wasn't careful, he wouldn't have the chance to die for all mages. "I can't ask you to follow me where this path leads."

"You're not asking anything. I'm asking." There was movement, shuffling, and Hawke strained to hear as Bethany's voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. "I'm asking you to give this a chance. Isn't love one of the things you're fighting for? The freedom to love?"

Anders made a noise, close enough to a heartfelt groan to make Hawke's hands clench. "Bethany—"

"Knock, knock," he called out, louder than strictly necessary, and leaned around the barrier just in time to see a pair of terribly naughty mages step hastily away from each other, cheeks pink and clothes ever so slightly rumpled. "Good day, darlings. Fancy meeting you two here."

"I— Hawke—" Anders stammered, while Bethany simply bit her lip, eyes wandering around the room. After an instant of panic, however, Anders seemed to draw himself up, expression hardening from embarrassed to annoyed. "Fancy meeting me here? In my own home?"

"Not _you_." Stepping closer, Hawke called up a slick, dangerous smile. "You _two_. How lovely to see you, Miss Amell."

"Callum, stop it." Darting between the two men, Bethany glared sharply at Hawke, reminding him eerily of their mother. Her hand smacked against his chest, hard enough to prove she meant it, though her face was still flushed. "Between you and Varric, I can't go to the market without being spied on. Not everything I do is your business."

Over twenty years of fraternal instinct screamed at him to snap back that it surely _was_his business (business that was primarily, as always, protecting her), or possibly to pull her hair. Instead, Hawke continued to breathe deeply and calmly. "This is certainly not a discussion I'll have here. I simply came by to collect my clean bill of health before I pop upstairs for a visit."

She tried to hide it, but Hawke did not miss the flicker of fear in Bethany's eyes. It appeared more and more likely that their dearest Mother wasn't quite up to speed on the progress of this… fiasco.

Reaching out, he cupped Bethany's shoulders in his hands, lacing his voice with as much quiet compassion as he could muster. "Fenris is out front. I'm sure he'd be pleased to escort you home, and I'll follow shortly. Then we can have a proper talk, all right?"

Not entirely surprisingly, Bethany pursed her lips and pushed his hands away, crossing her arms tightly. "Don't you try that with me. If you think I'm about to leave you here to bully Anders, you've got another thing coming."

Right; new tack. Stepping back, adopting a looser, less threatening stance, Hawke crossed his own arms and raised his brows. "I resent the implication I would bully anyone, _but_it's my duty and my Maker given right to give your suitors a hard time. Anders will agree with me."

The mage in question rolled his eyes, still standing at Bethany's back. "And with that, someone remembers I'm here. Lovely. Hawke, go sit on a cot and I'll be out to check on you in a moment. Bethany—" His sister turned, but Hawke's attention was firmly on Anders. The conflicted gleam in those sad, amber eyes was… actually a bit depressing. "Bethany, please go home. I… I promise we'll speak later. Please."

After a few heartbeats of silence, Bethany sighed, shoulders slumping. "All right, Anders. _You_—" Only frequent exposure to Fenris' many glares and glowers kept Hawke from flinching when his spitfire of a sister rounded on him, literal sparks pinging from her fingertips. "Be nice."

"As you say, dear lady." Dipping a flourishing bow, Hawke ever so slowly began walking backward, not quite willing to leave the sparkly lovebirds alone together. "After you."

* * *

><p>"Well," Hawke said mildly, once Bethany and Fenris had taken their leave. After a dubious glance at the available cots, and specifically the strange, suspicious stains marring every single one of them, Hawke had opted to stand, idly nosing through shelves of potions and books. "That was hideously awkward, wasn't it?"<p>

"And I fully expect it will get worse before it gets better," Anders replied, resigned. "Take off your coat and shirt, please. I need to feel your chest."

Reaching down to make quick work of all his buckles and toggles, Hawke smirked. "Charmer. I bet you say that to all the Hawkes."

"And here it goes." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Anders leaned back against a rough-hewn table strewn with herbalism supplies. "Getting worse."

Tossing his baldric, coat, and vest onto a nearby crate, Hawke yanked his shirt over his head, rubbing one hand over his bare, prickly chest. "Don't mind the stubble; I'm usually much furrier. Oh, and speaking of, do you have anything for itch in my smalls that has nothing to do with crotch-rot? Stubble there too."

"Oh. So much worse." Sounding just a tad strangled, Anders pointed to the shelf behind Hawke. "The squatty ceramic pot, third from the right on the top. Apply the salve twice daily, or more often if needed. It should soothe any inflammation, and help soften the hair as it grows in. And Maker, before you ask, _no_, it's not edible."

Grabbing the small pot, Hawke dropped a couple silvers onto the table and puffed out his chest. "Thanks, old boy. Now, feel away."

Anders hands were warm, his touch gentle but no so light that it tickled, and Hawke dutifully twisted, coughed, and breathed just as he was told, answering questions as the exam continued. The first probe of arcane energy made him shiver, but then the magic settled through his chest like a slow trickle of warm water, soothing aches he'd barely noticed.

He couldn't get distracted, blast it all. He had brotherly duties to perform.

"Hypothetically," he said, as Anders pressed both thumbs against the centre of his sternum; Hawke could feel the magic wriggling back in his spine. "Wouldn't you say you're a bit… seasoned, to be canoodling with such a sweet young thing?"

This close, Hawke could easily see Anders' eyebrow twitch, and also smell the pungent herbal mantle that hung around the man like another eccentric coat. Bethany had interesting taste, not that Hawke was one to judge.

Drawing his magic back, Anders stepped away and brushed his hands together briskly. "_Seasoned_? I'm twenty-seven, you ass."

"Really?" He hadn't expected to sound quite so incredulous, but Maker, _twenty-seven_. "You… hm. You've got a distinguished look about you."

"You're fine. No lingering ill effects." Anders' tone was tight with forced lightness, a little bit brittle, and Hawke wondered what manner of nerve he'd hit. "Now if you're quite through badgering me about hypotheticals, I believe you have somewhere to be. Somewhere that's decidedly not here."

"You really like her." The sudden realisation was a bit like being zapped with lightning, a feeling with which Hawke had become unfortunately and intimately familiar, growing up with Bethany (he'd been a rather mischievous lad in his younger days, astonishingly). Anders seemed nearly as shocked at the revelation, staring at him as though he'd grown another head, but the deepening flush burning across those scruffy cheeks didn't lie.

Anders floundered, fidgeting, until finally running both hands back over his hair and finding his voice, which as it turned out was hoarse with a kind of reverence Hawke had been fairly certain was reserved for amazing sex or Chantry services. "She is a special girl. I can't help but care for her a great deal."

_Shit._ This was serious. Hawke really didn't need this kind of pain in the arse. For a few long, awkward moments, there was nothing but dense silence, and the sound of a baby fussing farther out in the clinic.

He couldn't ruin this for Bethany. He _couldn't_, no matter how insane it seemed. He'd… leave it be, for the moment. See how things played out.

And hey, murder was always an option later, should the need arise.

Right. Romantic renegade mage and heaps of crazy aside, Hawke still had one question that needed answering.

"I don't have to threaten you, Anders," he said evenly, finishing up the necessary steps of this song and dance. "You've got at least some idea of what will happen if you hurt her."

Anders nodded mutely, while Hawke started pulling his shirt back on, considering. "Good man. Now, could I ask you a personal question?"

"_Aren't you a little old to be making eyes at my sister _isn't personal enough for you?"

"That was a professional inquiry. I am, in fact, a professional big brother… but also a professional observer of people." Fastening his vest, Hawke slung his coat on loosely and buckled his baldric with reflexive motions. "And I must know: you fancy men too, yes? Or have I completely lost my mind?"

"I won't speak to the latter," Anders said pointedly, obviously piecing together bits of his composure after that interesting revelation they were both very purposefully _not discussing_. Even Hawke would concede that that was a conversation better had between Anders and Bethany. "But yes, if you must know. I don't shy away from being with someone just because they're the same as me, or because they're different. People are more than simply bodies."

"Mmhm. Very poetic of you." Kitted out once more, Hawke picked up his new salve and tucked it away in his belt. It was an incredible relief to know he hadn't been wrong about every single thing he'd figured about the mage. "So, I'm no longer at death's doorstep, I've got my special bollocks cream, and I've done the proper posturing and threatening. With all that, I should be off, but I'm sure I'll be seeing you around, Anders."

"Oh no doubt, considering you own me a favour. A _hefty one, _if I remember correctly."

_A hefty favour_. He had said that during their escapades with the Antivans, hadn't he? Well then.

"I do indeed. Could we consider the whole _not brutally slaughtering you for looking twice at my sister _thing as debt paid?" Really, he was only about half-serious, but Anders narrowed his eyes anyway. Before the mage could start squawking about unfairness or what have you, Hawke held up a quelling hand. "Kidding. Unless the favour is pressing, we can discuss details after I've gone visiting. Is that acceptable?"

"Certainly." Leaning back against the table again, Anders looked a bit… harder, for a moment. "I'll drop by the Hanged Man sometime this week."

"Just out of curiosity—" Shit, he was almost afraid to ask. "This favour wouldn't involve a certain steely Knight Commander, would it?"

Not even bothering to offer a falsely reassuring smile, Anders tipped his head towards the main doors. "I'll see you later, Hawke."

END


End file.
